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Neither Mary's volubility nor William's tender silence could elicit more from him than this, that he could not settle down idly in England, and that therefore he meant to make work for himself in Australia; and after an hour's chat, he left them, promising to call for AVilliam next day. As soon as the door was shut on him, Mary, with a courtly reverence, went up to her husband, saying, —
"All hail, my lord; hail to thee," Thane of Eastwood!"
"What do yon mean?"
"Don't you see," she said, "that John means to give you back the place?"
"Mary, your wits are going, from your hankering so much for those fair acres. What do you mean?"
"O, nothing," she said, poutingly. "I was only prophesying."
The next day John did not appear as he had promised, but sent to fetch his brother to his hotel, whence they went down together to the ship. They were both rather silent, though John assumed a lightheartcdness in talking of his prospects. As the hour drew near for William to leave the vessel, he wondered that his brother had no last words to give of directions about his property. "John," he said aloud, " of course you have put all your affairs into Sheepskins's hands? I ask. because with your sudden departure I shall be glad to know that your property is in good care."
"O yes, Sheepskins knows everything I want done."
At the last moment, as William was leaving the ship, John called to him, "O William, give this parcel to your eldest boy as a remembrance from his uncle."
And thus the brothers parted.
William did not return home till after the children were in bed, so he laid the parcel on the table; of course Mary took it up and looked at it. "Open it, William, open it," she said, impetuously.
"Nonsense, my dear! Laurence shall have the pleasure of opening it himself to-morrow."
"No, no,"she said, dancing round her husband, "you mutt open it! William, if you don't, I will. O", do open it!"
She spoke with such wild excitement that he undid the outer string and paper, after which he came to an inner cover sealed. Then even the philosopher became puzzled as he opened a large piece of parchment. What excited him seemed to quiet Mary. She sank on a chair, gasping out, "Read it!" He read it to himself, so she got up to look over him. There was a long pause, and then William cried for the first time since he left the nursery.
"The noble fellow, the poor, noble-hearted fellow! Mary, we never did him justice! This is another deed of gift. John has hereby given the estate to our eldest boy; but I am to enjoy it during my life; or as he has worded it, ' he has given Eastwood in fee to Laurence with an usufructuary interest to me for life.' AVife, there is a stronger will than mine at work in this matter."
It is needless to tell the reader that a letter, expressing William's appreciation of his brother's generosity, was sent to John by the next mail; but it never reached him. The great vicissitudes of the past year, the changes in his circumstances (greater within than even without) working on a frame weakened by years of hard living, had been too much for him. As long as the excitement of returning the estate to William lasted, he kept up. This intention of dispossessing himself of Eastwood was the
purpose which had induced him so quietly to anvp it from his brother, and which had taken him pnvatcly to Mr. Sheepskins. The cbanTMo in his thoughts, likes, and pursuits was so great that hel»h he could not settle in England, where he couM MT quite free himself from old associates, so he determined to emigrate. But when on board — his pt" purpose achieved — he sank into a silent condition: he did not appear unhappy, but soon prostration tr the body followed on that of the mind, and he die! before the ship reached its destination. Uoubtlw all was well with him. He had during the last tkr months striven to repair the evils of his youth. As far as he could, he had worked justice on him-*4f: and now he could begin again in a country I*1known to him than Queensland even, and when1 i: is hoped he would make use of the experience s dearly bought in this world.
By leaving the estate to his nephew, and br giting his brother only a life interest in it, John |trvented William from getting rid of it on anyp!?.. But the news of his death, a few months attract gave William a melancholy assurance that he Tireally the rightful owner.
Thus it was that the youngest son of Sir Jok Williams became "William Williams, Esq Q- C, of Eastwood Park, County Herts."
The question is left to the reader to answer.AAras it by mere chance that these circumstance? •*• curred, or was there an overruling Intelligowe A work, who out of confusion brought order, and nud> contradictory laws subservient to one great end?
A LOST ART.
AMONG the many wrongs that I suffered dnrasj my school-time — a period which it is only the wee who venture to misrepresent as agreeable—l iff down as the most mischievous this wrong, that nj handwriting was ruined. The seminary at which I was a pupil was unfortunately a Classical or Fi&ionable one. No young gentleman was supposed to be in a position that so vulgar an accomplish" as caligraphy could possibly become necessary' him in after-life. If you gave them the ideas a&i a dictionary, there were few of us who had a ' the "faculty divine " of constructing Latin rer«e>; but as for the hand in which they were traMofted,—you might think it had been an ingcniff* effort of our little toes. In a school preparatory ft Eton, however, such learning as how to write w no more«to be expected than the art of book-kffping by double entry, and therefore parents a: guardians were not disappointed. Once in a tonindeed, we each indited an epistle to our fnena1 at home, under the surveillance of Dr. SwishTM and his crew of ushers; but it was felt on all hani" to be a very unsuccessful affair. The composition it is true, was elaborate and ornate, and ahoo' •'unlike what a boy would write, if left to hiB)*E as can be conceived.
My DEAR [M. or P.] — I write to inform j" that the school-term will be completed on the *'; inst., upon which day please to make aminireiw'''-* for sending for me, if you can conveniently, and Mrs. Swishem request me to convey to vim t.«' best compliments. Hoping you are in good lu1"-'111I remain, dear (M. or P.]. your Affectionate Son.
It would not be credited by Messrs. Pirs*1 ** Lubin, perfumers, how execrably those letters" were permitted (in so fashionable ry) to smell of india-rubber. But the fact is,
not only had the parallel lines, without which our communications would have been more or less diagonal, to be rubbed out, but also an immense amount of dirt, produced by tears, perspiration, jacket-cuffs, and other matters all incident to this tremendous ordeal; not to mention that half a dozen blades of penknives were used up in the work of erasures.
The delicate manner (we called it "gingerly") in which the second r in " arrangements " (omitted in the original) was inserted by the Doctor himself, in as good an imitation of the writer's own style as his sense of propriety would permit, and the final flourish in which the signature was enveloped, as at the conclusion of some pyrotechnic display, were efforts which would have excited our admiration, if boys had such a tribute to give. They were really wonderful to us, most of whose native hieroglyphics would have defied the subtilty of Colonel Rawhnson or any other decipherer who had been only accustomed to deal with cuneiform inscriptions. I say most of us, because some of us had been very respectable writers before we came to Dr. Swishem's, and owed our subsequent failure entirely to him and his system.
I myself, for instance, remember the time in my early boyhood when I could read with tolerable ease any sentence that I had once written, no matter though forty-eight hours might have intervened; whereas, as an adult, such a feat has been utterly impossible. The learned sergeant in the Pickwick Papers, who is described as so indifferent a penman that his best efforts could only be read by his clerk, his moderate ones by himself, and his usual ones by neither, was yet better than I; for after a day and night have elapsed, I can make absolutely nothing of my own writing. It was a "Caligraphic Mystery " long before the Stereoscopic Company patented theirs; and were it not for my wife, to whom the gift of interpretation has been revealed, and who copies out all my manuscripts for the press, the general public would know nothing of their favorite author. But stay, I am anticipating. It was never supposed at Minerva Lodge that any pupil would subsequently so far degrade himself, and it, as to endeavor to make a living by his pen. The possibility of such a misfortune — to do my revered master justice — never entered into the Doctor's brain. We were all country gentlemen's sons, and it was hoped that we should remain in that position of life in which it had pleased Providence to start us.
But even a country gentleman has sometimes to write an invitation, and even an Address to his Constituents, if he aspires to sit in St. Stephen's (and does not get it written by somebody else), and therefore I contend that Dr. Swishem should have taught us how to write. Perhaps he imagined, as the advocates of classical education maintain in the case of History, Geography, and the Modern Languages, that Writing is too contemptible a subject for the intellect of youth to grapple with, and may be safely left for subsequent acquisition. But, at all events, he need not have spoiled "the hands" of those who had hands. This, however, was effected most completely by his system of punishment by Impositions. If I was caught "out of bounds," or eating sausages in bed, or putting slate-pencil into a keyhole, or (worse than all) if nature, overburdened by an early dinner, gave way during the Doctor's sermon, and I fell asleep at church, there ensued an imposition; that is, I was compelled to copy out, from a classical author, a certain amount of lines, varying from a hundred to one thousand. In the
case of a very flagrant outrage, — swigging the Doctor's table " ale" (it never wore Mr. Bass's triangle, I am certain) upon the sly, — I say, in the case of that depraved young gentleman, Maltworm minor, I have known an imposition of Two Thousand Lines of the poet Virgil to be set in punishment.
There was not much in common between Dr. S. (who was a foolish little round man, given up to heraldry) and the bard of Mantua, but they were always hereby connected in our minds, and hated with an equal rancor. How our fingers scurried over those odious hexameters, until they grew stiff and sore, and refused to form the letters I How we scratched and scrawled, and dug into the paper, with those execrable steel pens \ What strange inventions were made use of (though never patented) to shorten the cruel mechanical toil — surely almost as bad as the Crank of our model prisons — by tying half a dozen pens together, and imputing the vice of repetition where our author had never been suspected of it before \
In short, although of the positive results of my education at Minerva Lodge I have but little to boast (for I soon forgot how to compose Latin verses), that little was more than balanced by the fact, that my handwriting was utterly ruined by its Imposition system. Excessive speed was the only virtue which it nourished in the way of penmanship; we soon got to write "running-hands." But as for the art of writing, as a means of communicating information to others, it lapsed altogether, and was lost from amongst us, as completely as the method of staining glass is said to have disappeared from the whole human family.
"Spirit-hands," to judge from the few specimens of the penmanship of the other world with which we have been favored, are not particularly adapted for setting "copies," and, indeed, much remind one of the wanderings of a spider, recently escaped from an ink-pot; but "spirit-hands" are as copperplate specimens of caligniphy compared to my hand. To people who can't spell, a bad handwriting is some advantage; for in cases of doubt—such as, whether the i or the e come first in Believe or Receive — they have only to make their customary scrawl, and the possible error becomes undiscoverable; but the nature of my profession has compelled me to acquire this accomplishment (no thanks to Dr. Swishem), and I have rarely any occasion for concealment.
There was one person who discovered ground for congratulation upon this my shortcoming, and only one. He was a gentleman who lived a life of leisure, and he confessed that my letters gave him greater pleasure than those of other friends, because they "lasted him so long." The first day upon which he received one, he would discover, alter half a dozen perusals, a glimmering of what was intended to be conveyed; the next day, some interesting detail would crop out; and by the end of a week, if some sentence did not emerge with a flash which altered the entire complexion of the affair, he found himself (with the assistance of his family, and any ingenious friend who happened to be enjoying his hospitality) in possession of all that I had wished to say. But this gentleman's case was an exceptional one. When my wife was unable to copy my deathless works, the compositors murmured and rebelled. They only knew English, they said; not Sanscrit. My Essay on the Assyrian Bull, for instance, with some Remarks on its Treatment under Rinderpest, as suggested by Nineveh "Friezes," cost my publisher seventy pounds in printer's charges for "erasures and alterations" alone. I am so ashamed of my
for my inferiority, when they show me their "pothooks and hangers," and I shall not easily forget that moment of embarrassment, when one of them, in the absence of her governess, asked me to set her "a copy." "Dear papa, please write me out a line of Its." I could as easily have written down the genealogy of Pharaoh, king of Egypt. Even the two ingenious "blind men" at the post-office were unable to decipher me except by mutual consultation. My envelopes took ten times the period that other Illegible did in passing through their hands. They doubtless puzzled over the efforts of all those who had, like myself, been educated at Minerva Lodge, but the profession of literature — the trade of the constant scribbler — had in my case so thoroughly completed the evil which Impositions had begun, that I was facile princeps among even them: the most infamous of all bad writers. Literature needs have no such effect as this, if the previous training has been good. Some foolish persons think it is a mark of genius to write ill, but this is a great mistake. I look over my own epistolary treasures, and see with shame how quite otherwise is the case.
Place aux dames. This neat little microscopic hand, every letter of which is legible, belongs to the authoress of Our Village ; and these bold and wellformed lines are from the same fingers which wrote Di'rrfirook and the Crofton Boys.
This free and manly hand (the best I know) is that which set down the Domestic Annals of Scotland; and this, perhaps the next best, so firm, distinct, and vet so flowing, is the same which has moved mankind at will to tears and laughter, from the days of Pickwick until now. To judge by this bold running-hand, the Woman in White was no Dead Secret to the printer; and here is the clear legible work of those dead fingers which shall paint, alas ! no Colonel Neiccomei for us anv more.
Had I possessed the genius of all these writers combined, I should yet have been as one who preaches in an unknown tongue, edifying no Reader (and least of all "the Header" who is employed by the printer), but for the fair Interpretess of whom I have spoken; and even she was useless to me in some things. There are letters which one cannot get one's wife to write for one; and my correspondents grew rebellious, and threatened to cut off all communication with one who gave them so much trouble. A business-friend in the city, declaring that "my telegraph-hand was much better than my writing-hand," insisted upon hearing from me by the wires only. Finally, a "round-robin" was addressed to me from the members of my own family, requesting that I should take writing-lessons of a professor, and enclosing thirty shillings to defray his charges for the first six lessons. I make it a rule never — under any circumstances — to return people's money, and, at the same time, I am too wellprincipled not to apply what I receive to the purpose for which it is intended. At the age of fortvfive, therefore, I began to learn that science which I had acquired at eight years old, and lost during my residence at Minerva Lodge.
"Impositions, eh?" remarked the Professor as soon as he set eyes upon a specimen of what the painters would call my " latest style."
"Yes," said I, " that was the beginning of it; but Literature was the finislung-school."
"Don't believe it, sir," returned he. "I have had hundreds of adult pupils, who all write like this — only certainly not quite so badly. Not one schoolboy out often who has been brought up on classical principles can write a legible hand. The headmasters ought to be flogged all round."
"Or even where the boys are flogged," suggested I; but he did n't understand this allusion.
"You will require to take a dozen lessons instead of six, sir," continued he, severely.
And he spoke within the mark, for before I \A his establishment, cured, I had to take eighteen. I consider that if the law of England was framed upon equitable principles, it would enable me to " Twiter " the sum of four pounds ten shillings from the executors of the late Dr. Swishem; but I need Bos say that such is not the case.
My friends, of course, with the exception of tbf Gentleman of Leisure, were delighted with the* result attained; and the compositors who have ib? pleasure of setting up this paper can scarcely belie*? their eyes. But I am by no means altogether fixed from the consequences of my late deformity (for that's the very word). A most respectable trade*man, to whom I gave my first check after this wondrous change, was, upon presenting it in person at my banker's, at once taken into custody upon the charge of forgery. He has brought an action appins the farm for defamation of character, and I am subpoenaed as a witness in the Central Criminal Conrt. My old check-book will be there produced, and tte signatures (?) contrasted with the way which I havr recently acquired — including a beautiful flonri-b like an Eagle — of subscribing my name. It will not, therefore, be necessary to humiliate myself br further confessions, since, for the culmination of this sad history, readers may consult the public papm for themselves.
THE BROOCH OF BRUCE.
The Highland plaid, called the breacan-fflr, or "checkered covering," was, originally, a far mar: important article of dress than it is at the present day, forming, in fact, the chief portion of the wtume. Professor Cosmo Innes would appear to di«believe the antiquity of the Highland checkered dress, and is hard upon "the man of fashion »he can afford to ape the outlaw of the melodrama." But General Stewart says that " in the toilet (if a Highlander of fashion," the arrangements of tie plaid were of the greatest consequence. It had» length of four yards and a breadth of two, and Wm so folded that it covered the body and came down to the knee, being confined round the waist by' belt, except in wet weather, when it could be »1justed so as to shelter the whole person. When the wearer required the free use of both his arms, the plaid was fastened across the breast by a bodkin or brooch; but when the right arm only was left hwv. the brooch was worn on the left shoulder. The brooch was circular in its shape, and was fmjwnllv adorned with crystals, caim-gonns, and preciwtf stones ; while its silver rim was engraved with various devices and mottoes. Martin mentions sou* "of one hundred merks value, with the figures "I various animals curiously engraved."
These Highland brooches were preserved ».« family heir-looms, and were treasured with a superstitious care. Their resemblance to the Roman Jibiila seems to have greatly impressed the mind of Wordsworth, who, in the brooch and plaid (woni
kilt-wise), could see vestiges of the earliest history of the people, and their communications with the Roman invaders. He says that, before Columba's visit,
"was not unknown
The Brooch of Lorn, that "brooch of burning gold," is historical, and forms the subject of the minstrel's song at the feast of the Lord of the Isles. It was at the defeat at Dalrec, in Breadalbane, in 1306, that Bruce, being hotly pursued by one of the Macdougals of Lorn, slew him with his battle-axe, but left in his death-grasp his plaid and brooch. This brooch was carefully preserved at Dunolly Castle, where it was said to have been lost at the burning of the Castle in the seventeenth century, and a statement to this effect is made by Sir Walter Scott, in the notes to his poem, and also by General Stewart, in his " Sketches" (ii. 442). This, however, is erroneous, for the brooch is still preserved by Admiral Macdougal, at Dunolly House, and an illustration of it is given in the last edition (1864) of Professor Wilson's " Prehistoric Annals."
Another brooch of Bruce, but acquired in a friendly instead of a hostile manner,* has also been preserved to the present day. The brooch is very large and handsome; the central stone is a fine cairn-gorm, surrounded with Scotch pebbles, set in silver, much tarnished by age. Within the brooch the letters F. M. K. are rudely marked, being the initials of Farracher Mac Kay, to whom Bruce gave the brooch. The clan of the Mackays of LTgadale was one of ten of the second class of vassals of the Isles; and Gregory mentions that Gilchrist Mac Imar Mackay had a grant of lands in Cantire from King Robert Bruce, and " that from him were descended the Mackays of Ugadale, who, after the forfeiture of the Lord of the Isles, attached themselves to the Macdoualds of Islay."
The history of this brooch given by Bruce to Mackay is a curious page in the romantic annals of royal fugitives. According to Cantire tradition, in those days when King Robert Bruce was a fugitive, and had a price set upon his head, he was nigh perishing from hunger and fatigue during a night passed upon the bleak mountain of Sliobhghoil, in North Argyleshire, but was kept warm by a goat who also refreshed him with her milk, in grateful remembrance of which he afterwards made a law that forbade the poinding (or pounding) of a goat. The next morning he walked on to Cantire, South Argyleshire, and met a beggar-man, who gave him a little meal, which the king mixed with water in the heel of his shoe, and ate heartily, saying, "Hunger is a good cook ; it is bad to slight food; barley-meal brose out of my shoe is the best food that ever I used." Then he came on to Cantire's monarch of mountains — 2.170 feet high — Beinn-an-tuirc, "the wild boar's mountain," so called because Diarmid had there slain the dreaded boar, and had lost his own life through the jealousy of Fingal.
Bruce wandered in the forest of Bunlaradh, where he met a man who would not tell who he was. So they fought; and when they had fought till they were exhausted, they agreed that it was pitiful work, and that it would be better for them to tell their names. Whereupon they did so, and Bruce discov
* Now in the ponwraioo of Captain Fleeter Mucncal, of Ugadale ud Ionit, in Cantire.
ercd in his opponent his friend General Douglas, who was also a fugitive. Then they came down to Ugadale, on the eastern shore, and gained admittance at the house of one Mackay, who was entertaining his friends at a merry-making, and who welcomed them with Highland hospitality, compelling Bruce to drink a quaigh of usquebaugh, saying, " I am king in my own house." Then Mackay gave them their beds and breakfasts, and took them up Beinn-antuire, in order to show them the way to the western coast of Cantire. Then Bruce disclosed himself, and promised that when he had regained his throne he would grant Mackay any favor that he should ask of him; whereupon Mackay replied, that if he had the two farms of Ugadale and Arnicle, he should be as happy as a king. Bruce promised him this, and bade him farewell at the spot still called Cross Alhlc CaMh, or "the Cross of Mackay," telling him to come and see him in Edinburgh whenever he should perceive a bonfire blazing on a certain hill in Galloway. Mackay did so, and received from the king the title-deeds of the two farms; and when he declined drinking a goblet of wine, Bruce constrained him, reminding him that he, in his turn, was king in his own house.
Such, told briefly, is the purport of the popular stories relating to Bruce and Mackay that I collected on the spot in I860, and which were published in the following year in my " Glencreggan "; * and in these, as will have been seen, no mention is made of a brooch. Further inquiries on this subject, made during the five past years, have put me in possession of fresh particulars relating to this story, which have not hitherto been published. A Cantire laird tells me: I believe the true version of this story to be as follows, and this I had from old John Macdougall of Killmaluaig, and the late Ugadale so far confirmed it; moreover, the tenure of the Ugadales further vouches for the truth of the story. It would appear, then, from this version of the story, that the king slept at Killmaluaig, a farm (now belonging to Glencreggan) of which Mackay was then tenant. The king was in disguise, and was hospitably entertained by Mackay, who spoke strongly against the Bruce. The king asked Mackay if he could direct him to the ferry for Arran. Mackay not only could do so, but offered to escort him on his wav in the morning. They started accordingly, and rested where a stone now marks the spot on the hill of Arnicle, which is still the property of the Ugadales. From this spot Mackay pointed out to the king certain crown-lands, namely, the lands of Article. They proceeded on their journey, and came to Ugadale, which was also pointed out as crown-lands. At length they came to the ferry, where the king sat down on a stone — which is still shown — and where, after thanking Mackay for his hospitality, and giving him his brooch as a farewell token, he declared to him who he was. This put poor Mackay in a great fright, from which, however, he was soon relieved by the king telling him that he need not fear, for that he had entertained him hospitably as a stranger, and that, if he should succeed in obtaining his rights, he would give unto him those crown-lands of Ugadale and Arnicle. The king afterwards carried his promise into effect, and the lands are now held on the obligation of entertaining the sovereign on coming to Cantire.
In this version of the story, General Douglas disappears into his original mythical mists, and there
"Glencreggan, or a Highland Ilome in Cantire."
are other slighter variations that can surprise no one who observes how rapidly even historical facts become encrusted with fable. A Cantire correspondent, to whom kinship to Bruce's Mackay has afforded peculiar means of information, has given me a version of the story in which some new and interesting particulars will be found. He says, that when Bruce had entered Mackay's house, the farmer offered him a seat at the supper-table. Bruce refused it; whereupon Mackay, bent upon hospitality, said that he must be seated, when Bruce replied, " Must is a word for kings to use to their subjects." On which Mackay said, "Every man is a king in his own house." When, on the morrow, Mackay had escorted his guest on his way, " Bruce presented his entertainer with the massive and curious silver brooch which is now in the possession of the laird of Ugadale," and asked him as to his position and prospecta, and what would be the greatest boon that could be conferred upon him. Mackay's reply was, "To be possessor of the land that I now farm as tenant." According to this version of the story, Bruce did not disclose himself to Mackay at this interview; but, when he "enjoyed his ain again," sent for the farmer to court, and there desired him to be seated. On Mackay's hesitating to do this, Bruce said, "Every man is a king in his own house "; whereupon Mackay recollected the occasion on which he himself had used the words, and then recognized the stranger whom he had befriended in the person of his king, who then presented him with the two farms of Ugadale and Arnicle in perpetuity. The original grant is still preserved. It is a piece of sheepskin, three inches square, bearing the words, "I, Robert the First, give the lands of Ugadale and Arnicle to McKay and his heirs forever." On this grant the family held the lands till the reign of James IV., when it was formally confirmed by a crown-charter.
The spot at Arnicle where Bruce and Mackay parted is marked by a cairn, on which was an inscription, which, according to tradition, recorded the history of the event, but it is now illegible. The glen still bears the name of Mackay's Glen. Ugadale is still a farm-house, as the Macneals reside at Lossit Park, near Campbelton. The late Laird of Ugadale was prevented from claiming his right to entertain his Sovereign, when the Queen visited Cantire, Sept. 17th, 1847, as she did not leave her yacht, which was moored for the night in Campbelton harbor. It was publicly stated by Douglas Jerrold that, on this occasion, the Provost sent the bell-man round the town to announce that "the Queen is now in the Loch!" though the real words are reported to have been, "the Queen's^ ships are now in the Loch." But even if the proclamation was made as reported, it was not a greater blunder than that which occurred at the Queen's visit to Aberdeen, when one of the announcements to the public was, " Her Majesty is now in the Dock."
The Mackays retained possession of Ugadale and Arnicle till the end of the seventeenth century, when the estate passed into the hands of the Macneals, of Tirfergus and Lossit, by the marriage of Torquil, a younger son of Lauchlan MaeNeill Buy, of Tirfergus, with Barbara Mackay, heiress of Ugadale, from whom the present laird and possessor of Bruce's brooch, Captain Hector Macneal, is lineally descended. The grave of Mackay, to whom Bruce gave the brooch and lands, is pointed out among the many interesting gravestones that crowd the old burial-ground of Saddell Monastery, Can
tire, where lie the bodies of " the mighty SomerM," and of his descendant Angus Oig MacdonaM,—the "Ronald " of " The Lord of the Isles," — who, *iih his "men of Argile and Kintyr," as Barhoor rayi in his poem of " The Brus," gave his king SKi important aid in the fight at Bannockborn, and who had also entertained him in big wanderings it his castle at Saddell.
THE MINISTER'S SANDY AND JESS.
I. WHAT SAXDY WAS TO BE.
Sajtdy, Mr. Stewart the minister of Clorenfori's only son, was to be a minister like his father »!*} grandfather, who had both wagged their Lewis in pulpits before him. Second-sight had seen him Ik a Geneva gown and pair of bands from the time HE wore long-clothes and bibs.
With the great end in view, many a day Sind; came in fear and trembling from making Dour-tres mills on the Hare Water, and playing shinty with his sister Jess and the neighboring farmers' sons on the country roads, to construe his CVesor or his So!lust m the minister's little brown bedroom.
Fifty years ago, Mr. Stewart was a Tory and an autocrat in rusty black, walking over his parish, not unlike Dr. Johnson, in snuff-brown, taking a trim down Fleet Street. The minister had made a love marriage. Mrs. Stewart had been an orphan, with a very slender patrimony,— a parlor boarder of tie Miss Allardyces, the old ladies who from time immemorial had kept the boarding-school in the neighboring town of Woodcnd. Mr. Stewart had met his fate at a Woodcnd subscription ball, when it was customary for ministers to carry to balls then1 white neckcloths and silver shoe-buckles as a testimony it favor of innocent enjoyment, and as a protest against Dissent and Jacobinism. There he succumbed in i single evening to Miss Jean Clephane's dancing, though he did not dance a step himself.
The marriage was a happy one. Mrs. Stewart paid the minister loving homage as the greatest an! best of men, and called him lord and master to the extent of keeping her bedroom scrupulously fret fbf his study, and spending the choicest of her accomplishments in needlework on the plated frills of hi' shirts and the open-work of his bands. In his turn, Mr. Stewart was tender to his wife, brought born-.' what he supposed her taste in gaudy caps and spacers, as connubial gifts, on the striking of the to and the meetings of Presbytery, Synod, and Assembly; took notice of her pets, her flowers, her work, — for Mrs. Stewart was almost as great in knitted bed-covers, tent-stitch-worked chairs, and cnrabric flowers, as Mrs. Delany ; humored her in her habits, squiring her three evenings a week in summer, wh«i she walked with her shawl over her head to tkf Karnes, to see the sun set behind the Beld Law. nutil the servants and the country-people called it* beaten footpaths through the corn and the closer "the Minister and the Leddy's Walk."
The manse children consisted of Sandy and Jos: and it was a common remark with regard to the two, that Sandy should have been Jess, and Ji* Sandy.
Sandy was not a scapegrace and a numskull, tie was a bonnie laddie, very like his mother both re her sweet, fair, sunshiny face, and her sanguine, tensitive, imaginative temperament. He was a shade thoughtless as regarded a divinity studied in prospective, with a greater bent for drawing on tic