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POBTP.T.
Kno.M flint’s U'FSTr.nN rcvieu.
TINTS ON T A SSI Mi THK GKA\ E OF A SISTER
On yonder shore,—On yonder shore,
" venlnnl with ns »h pih ofshodc,
lit until the wliite-arnu «l sycamore,
I’hero is a little infant laid.
I t.r-nvc this tear. A brother weeps
’ i thete the faded flow’ret sleeps.
Sjie sleeps alone. She sleeps alone,
The "'iiniiier’s forests o’er her wave ;
Ano' si^hint; winds at Autumn moan
Aimjiid the little straim* i’» /.-rave,
A** : ! joU£tIi they murmured, at the fate
ofum* so lone and desolate.
In s minis that seem like sorrow’s own,
Tle-ir funeral dirges Faintly creep ;
Tiien deepening to an organ tone,
I i ail their solemn cari'iim sweep,
A id pour unheard, along the wild,
Their desert-anthem o'er u child.
She came, and passed. Can I forget,
II-.u we, wIiojk hearts had hailed her birth,
E’er three autumnal suns had set,
Consumed her to her mother Earth ?
and their uiPiiiortea pass away *,
(hit eriel's are deeper traced than they.
That little group ; I sec them now,
As when I krvli among them, tlicr'*,
And saw our father’s pallid brow
Uncovered to the desert air:
As in the midst, he knelt to pray
beside the bier, on which she lay.
Again, I see each pale check flush;
Again the burning tear-drop start,
And mark thedeep arid voiceless jju 3 h
Of feelings—such ns wring the h. mf.
That grave—the spade—the collin—pall,
Aye, even jet, I see them all.
We laid her in her narrow cell,
VV« heaped the soft mould on her breast,
And parting tears, like ruin-drops fell
Upon her lovely place of rest.
May Angels guard itmay they hies*
Iler slumbers in the wilderness.
She sleeps alone. She sle-ps alone,
For all unheard, on yonder shore,
Tin sweeping flood with torrent moan,
At t veiling lids its solemn roar
As, mono hioud, < termil tide,
Its rolling waters onward glide.
There, is no marble monument,
There is no stone,—with graven lie,
To tell of love, and virtue l»|« nt,
In out ♦ almost too good to die.
AVe needed no such us. less*race,
To point us to her resting place.
The pilgrim, as he wan.ltrs by,
May see, indeed, no i«.ire, f.orn whence
To learn, thuthu is tr ading nigh
The sleeping dust of innocent «•;
but there are hcaits, by whom that spot,
In death, alone wijl ho forgot.
Slu sleeps alone. She sh ops ulone.
Hut now, the Spring lintli pas-. d her bier,
With llowery ciowu, and verdant zone,
To wake again tin-slnmliering year ;
And all around, on jovou** wing,
The forest songsters ilit and sing.
Sh.* sleeps alone. She sleep? alone,
B it midst the tears of \pril slmwers,
Tin* (ieuius of the wild hath strowu
Hi* germs offtuits, his fairest flowers,
And c%st his robe of m real bloom,
In guardian fondness o’er her tomb.
She •deeps alone. She sire] s alone,
But, vearlv, is her grave-turf drest
Ami still, the summer vines are thrown,
I i annual wreaths aernss her hrrnst,
And, -fill, the sighing Autumn eu* ves,
And strews the hallowed spot with leaves.
THK UNCONSCIOUS RIVALS.
A DRAMATIC SKETCH.
ri; usoss.
Al.nr.DT, about to be married to Emily,
Edward, hit brother.
Emii.v.
Scknf. I. A Shrubbery.—Enwinn alone.
Aye—thin is the day—this is the dnv which
will set mo nt rost—not at exactly in the plcn-
san'ost way in the world. The smi is bright :
»ll looks cay and happy ; out ofspite, I believe.
Good (md ! that 1 could got quit of this rest
less misery—Him fever of tho heart. Let
them ho married. W onld to hoavon they were:
tho shock at least would still me—stun me: I
am now—no matter how. Oli! that charm rip
fa, "—that air—that walk—those hands—those
bioiht eyes—and that laughing mind—how
they haunt me. Now that I could only
fancy her ugly, dull, disagreeable! Impossible.
I am in a fever—my whole frame is so agitated,
that I can neither walk, cat, drink, think, or
sleep; yet what am I to do t The blow is
struck, and the tusk yet remains to put on a
show of merriment nt the bridal, ami hide, un
der a joyous mask, tho bleeding of the heart
within. How sickening is the splendour of
or cry thing! tho sun. the flowers, the trees,
all Maze and drizzle me, I am it fool. 1 shall
tuucy in a moment that they mocked nie. Oh.
those hateful hells too : they might at least
haye hail the delicacy to spare me this. What
«"! I raving about t Little do they think, kind
soulb ! bow this henrt is swelling, till it almost
seems too lurge for its prison. That is at least
a consolation : yes, and n proud one too; and
it Hi ill bo my glory to cling to it,—never slmll
tho.r happiness be marred with tho knowledge
01 the pangs it has inflicted on me. \ f ew
h°urs more; a lew short hours, and the wont
w II he over. She who hns boon the idol of
m y heart, the constant •'Voiipunioti of my
thought* by day, and the sylph that hovered
"ightly over my pillow, and seemed to bless
me with a happiness too high to he realized
will ho then—my sister. Sister! what a word
Ah I she comes. I cannot see her now. Her
presence always throws me off my guard, and
I may utter that which I should afterwards re
pent. 1 feel a tumult in my veins already ,
but she has observed me. I see. To avoid
her would look strange, and she might even
suspect—well, 1 must to the torture.
Enter Emily.
Edicard. Good morning, Emily; you are
come to see your little plantation here. I sup
pose.
Emily. I—i expected to havo found your
brother hero.
Edward. Cold enough. Well, it is better
it should he so. [.'is’fe.] I have been ad
miring your flower-beds : you have quite a
fairy creation here. They are laid out, too, in
such a manner, that the eye is quite charmed
by the pleasing succession of the colours.
Vour taste, Emily. shows itself, even in the ar
rangement of flowers.
Emily. One of triy carnations wants tying
up. I perceive.
Eduard. Let me do it.
Emily. No.
Eduard. You seem unwilling that I should
ho of service toyou in any thing, Miss Fnrdyce.
Emily. Now don’t speak in so unkind a
tone, and I will pull you the flower for a peace
offering ; or stay—not that—here is a violet for
you : my favourite flower, you know.
Eduard. And it well nmy he so ; for sweet
ness ami gentleness arc the cliaraeteristics of
both. I will keep this gift as a sacred trea
son!, and—
Emily. You seeinto think too highly of an in
significant flower. Mr. Stuart. I only meant—
Eduard. Only meant what. F.nnly ?
Emily. To—to prevent your growing ernss
with me ; and I thought it was such a trifling
thing.
Edward. And did you think a gift of yours
could be trifling to inc I besides, every time
1 look upon it, 1 shall think of the soft blui
eyes of-—tny sister.
[-1 pause. Al.aF.ltT enterin',r slowly, and oh-
serving thent.]
Emily, [with a sort of forced gaiety.] You
remind nte this is my wedding-day. What fa
vour have you gut for me ? and hero comes AI
bert just in time In see it.
Eduard. A favour! Oh, yes ; will you wear
this rose ns my offering ?
Emily. No, indeed; for it is beginning to
fade. 1 am sure 1 won’t have that.
Edward. Wither’d ! then I will have it my
self. It is wet with dew, too, and looks as if
tilt! poor flower had wept over the deeay that
is feeding upon its beauty. It is mine, and
you shall have this white lily. May your life
ho ns liiir and its litslto as unsullied. Do you
not smile, Albert, at our folly?
Albert. I certainly admire your taste in se
lecting a half-withered rose.
Edward, [confused.] Ah, it is an emblem
of tho fleetingness of mortality, and I am halfa
philosopher, you know. I could extract it ve
ry grave lesson out of it; hut F.mily said she
came down on purpose to meet you; so now
you are come, I will make my best bow, and
r- tirc. I may want the same favour from you
one of these days.
Albert. And we shall, no doubt, readily pav
hut nt present I want to talk to F.mily in the
house, if she has no objection.
Emily. None whatever. Shall we walk up ?
Albert. I have a word to say to F.dtvard :
I'll follow you, my love. [Exit Emily] I wnnt-
d, Fdwnrd, to hear your grave lecture on the
withered rose.
Eduard. You arc but n dull bridegroom to
think of any thing grave on your wedding day.
Albert. Nevertheless, if the fancy suits me,
tnetlrnks you might gratify it.
Eduard. With all my hunrt; but I never
lecture nt sight. I will prepare vou a very
choice philosophical morceitu, if you wish it;
but J must have time to consider my subject,
arrange my arguments, look for a few Greek
or Hebrew quotations, and—
.'libert. Edward this trifling sits too ill upon
t oil to come from the heart. Listen to me.
Wo havo lived together :n infancy, in youth,
and in manhood. Ilavo 1, during all this
lime, acted in any thing unworthy of a brother ?
Edward. You never huve. i’ut why so se
rious ?
Albert Then, ns my recompense, let me
conjure you to answer the question I am about
to ask, pointedly and truly. Did yon at nil
figure your own heart, under the tniuge of the
half-withered rose ?
Eduard. What could have led you to suppose,
Albert. Do not prevaricate with me, for I
cannot bear it. Look mein the lace Fdwnrd,
and tell me truly and manfully—do you not
love Emily I
Edward. Thus urged. I will not deny that
I do ; but I have struggled with my passion,
and—
Albert, [eagerly] With any success?
Edward. No; for it mocks all tny endea
vours. But do not go ; hoar nte deriarc, that
I have never given Emily the least reason to
suppose—
Albert. No more ; it is as I suspected. Idiot
tlmt I was ? I deserve mv punishment. De
tain tnc not—1 cannot speak to you. Another
time—an hour hence. Oh! Emily, Emily!
[Rushes out, Edward following him.]
Scene II. F.mily al her Harp.
Albert, xcho has entered during the song, ad
vances.
Albert. That is hut a dull song for a bridal
one, Emily. In tears, too, my love! Surely
I nmy ask the cauHO.
Emily. There is something in that nir which
always atfects me; it is so simple, and yet so
plaintive; the words, too,'arc sud, anil you
know I am fond of mournful things.
Albert. The heart, it is said, takes its parti
alities from their similarity to its own feelings.
Is Emily’s heart then sad I
Emily. Wliut, on my wedding duy I Fie,
Albert.
Albert. Wedding days are not al way. 1 joy.
ful days. When there is a worm gnawing nt
the heart, it is not a sprightly jest or two, or a
fow merry notes of a dancing tune, that can
heal ts pangs.
F.mily. Why what is tho matter With the
man I He talks as gravely as the gentleman I
expect to hear shortly read a part of the prayer
book. I declare, and looks as solemn too—and
so pale. Surely, Albert, you are not ill I
Albert. I am well in body, my Emily; but
I am afraid you will think my mind strangely
disordered when I ask you if you love me I
Emily. It is certainly rather late for such a
question. What does all this mean 1
Albert. 1 will explain myself. You know
the anxiety our fathers have always manifested
for our union, and that from our childhood we
have been destined for each other. For my
own part, no fiat could have been more wel
come- I Imve loved you, Emily, with all the
devotion of a heart glowing with warm and fer
vid feelings. I have watched your excellen
ces front their errliest germ, and proudly hail
ed them as they budded and blossomed. Con
fident of my own love, l was perhaps too pre
sumptuous when I thought I had succeeded in
acquiring yours. I am'about to deal very in
geniously with you, Emily. I remember when
I offered yon mv heart aid hand, you told me
your father’s pleasure was always yours; I
considered this a maidenly assent, and was sa
tisfied ; nor was it till within this fortnight that
I have begun to bo fearful 1 over-rate tny me
rits, and mistook, for a predilection in my fa
vour, what was but the compliance of a meek
and gen’le nature with the will of a stern and
despotic father. Do not lookunensy, Emily ;
I would not unnecessarily wrund your feel
ings, hut I must proceed ; attl in doing so be
lieve, I am not sparing my dvn. I loved you
before I knew what tho passion was—my heart
has been so full of you, thajit has scarce had
room to admit a thought brside—and now the
doubt whether I have not loved without return,
and built upon a fairyfnbiic ofhnppinoss, upon
a visionary foundation, is more horrible than
the deadliest certiinty. During tho last fort
night I havo been endeavouring to read your
very soul : I hav 1 only tormented mvself with
doubts, and I car bear the suspense no longer.
Even the hated certainty that yon loved Ed
ward would not he so great a torture.
Emily. Loved Edward ! 1 am sure I never
gave you any cause to think so, Albert. 1 have
consented to become vour wife; to commit
myself and my little all of happiness entirely to
your care, and it is but nn ungentle return for
my confidence to begin to suspect me already;
and of love, too, fnr one who never gave mo
reason to suppose that he thinks of me other
wise tlmn os the wife of his brother. Really,
Albert, this is not kind.
Albert. Forgive me. Emily. If I could at
this moment lay my heart open before you, and
you could see how it swells with agony almost
to bursting, I know you would forgive me.
Bui justice forbids me nt this moment to think
of feelings. Canyon, Emily, can yon raise
your eyes to mine, and unfalteringly tell me
you have never thought of Edward but as a
brother—that your heart has never once whis
pered the wish, that it was to him you were
going to plight your faith forever. You can
not—the native ingenuousness of vour mind
disdains a subterfuge. Let meet lenst thank
you’for not trilling with nn honest heart. In
that look I read my fate. I am, indeed, the
unhappy wretch I feared I was. [Exit.
Emily. Stay, Albert, in pity—hear me but
one word. He is gone ; and what am I? A
vile and guilty thing, who has ruined the peace
of a heart that looked to her for its happiness.
The fatal secret is revealed—the secret which
I dared not confess, even to myself: I have
given my henrt unsolicited, and to one, it may
be. that thinks not of me. I have done this,
and repaid with ingratitude the honest affection
of a man who merited my fondest love. AVhcre
■shall l conceal my shame—or how again bear
to look on either brother ? Oh, my father, hnd
you not so solemnly urged my marriage with
Albert—had I not known your stern and un
bending nature, I should have ventured to open
my heart to you, mid this might have been
spared me. But now tho sceno is all dark and
cheerless; and on whichever side I turn my
eyes, I behold nothing but misery and shame.
Exit.
Scene III. The Shrubbery. Einv ART).
The conflict is over: tho struggle was se
vere, hut virtue has triumphed. Yes, I will
show them that principle and honour arc not
mere shadows, and that however deeply the
henrt may feel, it can yet bend itself to the dic
tates of justice. I even seem to feel less acute
ly since I have shaken olf tho reproaches of
my conscience, Albert! Ho comes most op
portunely.
Euler Albert. '
I can now look yon in tho face again, bro
ther—wish me a good journey—I have deci
ded on accompanying Armheim to Germany,
and must be off to-day.
Albert. You must not leave us, Edward.
Eduard. And is it you that say so ? Albert.
I may be weak, but I am not a villinn. I have
staid here too long already.
Albert. Emily will persuade you to stay still.
Edward. Emily ! Would to Heaven I had
never seen her! I should have been spared
ninny a bitter pang ; but I am still master of
myself. I slmll out directly, and without an
other look at the Angel face which Albert,
you must present my adieus to her.
Albert. I must decline the office. Besides,
it will bo unnecessary. I have sent to desire
Emily’s presence ; she will be hercthis instant,
and, as I said, will persuade you not to go,
Edward. How coldly he speaks ! But have
I not deserved it ? [aside.] Albert, even Emi
ly could not persuade mo to be a thing I should
despise. But I havo not vanquished my feel
ings without a struggle, and the sight of her
now would unman me again. You must tell
her I am gone, and invent some plausible rea
son for my departure. Let not her happiness
with you be embittered bv the knowledge that
there exists ono who would havo died to pur
chase her love, but could not remain and see
it given to another.
Albert. She is here.
Enter Emily.
Emily, my love, I thank you for your ready
acquiescence with my wishes, [takes her
hand.] Edward, como forward. You love
each other. Be happy together. [Joins their
hands.]
Emily. Albert.
Edu ard. What does this mean ?
Albert. Briefly this. We have been rival
pursuers o! a rich prize, Edward, and you are
the victor. Emily lores you. Do not blush,
Emily, for my brother idolizes you, and is wor
thy of your affection. The preparations for
marriage are arranged—it shall take place st-II ;
hut you and I, Edward, will exchange situa
tions—you shall be the bridegroom, and re
ceive front my hand that which you were to
have given me.
Edward. This Albert, is like yourself. But
now hear me, though my confusion at so un
looked for an occurrence will scarce suffer me
to collect my thoughts. Though the thought of
being loved by Emilv makes this the sweetest
moment of mv life, I too can be magnanimous
and should detest my. elf if l cotdd accept
happiness that I know will cost you so dear,
At such a price I will not even accept a gift
like this.
Emily. Nor would I. It may not seem pro
per that I should speak, my secret is discover
ed, and why should I blush at confessing it
But I have already loo much abused your ge
nerosity, Albert; I will at least do so no far
ther.
Albert. I expected this ; and have taken
measures to render it useless. You know
was the other day offered by a friend, who
was ignorant of my intended marriage, a com
mission in his regiment. A letter with my
acceptance of it is now on the road to him.
havo thus put it out of my power to recede
my honour is engaged—the regiment is on the
point of embarking for India, and I must away
at onec.
Edward. This is unkind. To be so precipi
tate—
Albert. I know I must forec you to your
happiness. Perhaps I did not dare myself to
reflect. Enough ! it is done ! I must leave you
in the morning. Edward, and it is perhaps the
Inst request your brother will ever make, that
he may leave you the husband of Emily. Y'uu
still hesitate. Will you part with tno in anger
when we may never meet again?
Edward. If it must be so. But so cruel a
generosity ! and to loso such a brother too, at
the moment when I most learned to estimate
his worth ! Albert, yon strive in vain to make
tnc happy by such a sacrifice. Every moment
I should think of the misery and-v—
Albert. No more of that. Your refusal
would not make me iinppy ; for Etnilv loves
not me—but as a brother. In the bustle of the
camp I shall forget—no, not forget you Emily
—that ran only be when—no matter when—
but I shall know you are happy, that it is I
who made you so ; and 1 shall feel a pride in
the reflection, that will surpass any gratifies
tion I could have felt in the possession of your
hand, while your heart was given to another.
Wo may never meet again ; hut wherever my
destiny may carry me, my first and latest pray
er shall be for you. In return you will, per
haps you will, sometimes think kindly of him
who, though he might net Imve been so wor
thy of your nffectiou as the husband of your
ehoicc, yet loved you as deeply, as devotedly
as he could.
The Elfin Huntsman.—A gentleman who,
not a long ago, dwelt in a remotr part of Du
bntonshirc, in addition to a pony and a couple
of beautiful grey-hounds, entertained a mon
key thnt had been sent liirn by a military officer
from Gibraltar. Pug had formed a particular
friendship with the two dogs, and it was no
unfrequent sight to behold him seated on the
hack of ono of them cantering across the lawn
in front of his master’s dwelling, and npcing all
the airs of a first rule sportsman. Mr.
having risen -airly one morning, mounted his
shclty. nnd taking along with him the two Imr
riers, had scarcely emerged from the shrubbe
ry that surrounded the ancient mansion, when
pug, contrary to his wish, unexpectedly np;
peered, and was permitted, after a gentle re
primand, to take his usual scat on the back
of ono of his favourites. After proceeding
through several fields, and affording, by their
conjoined drollery, abundance of mirth to
their worthy master, a hare suddenly started
up, n few ridges from tho nose of tho encum
bered greyhound, nnd scudded along with
all tho swiftness it was master of; when it was
instmctly pursued by both of the dugs, pug all
the wliilo retaining his sent with wonderful
science, as, Mnzeppn-likc. ho (lew with his
gallant steed around the side of a moory hi*l,
with his tiny arms, clasped firmly round his
neck. Tho gentleman soon Inst sight of them,
hut putting spurs to his pony, followed, as
nenrly as lie could guess, the direction they
hnd taken, nnd coming up with a Highlander,
who was busily employed building a stone dike,
he inquired of him if he had seen any dogs
pass hv. “ Dogs, pleas your honor,” respon
ded Malcolm, “ bur saw ycr ain Mungo only
ten minutes svne, tracing a liars wi’ a’ littr
speed, and after rode a wee nttld carle, on a
grey'gallowny. at sic a rate thnt muckle de’il
hur nain sell could no o’rtak hor.”
From this description Mr had no
doubt that the trio which had occasioned so
much wonder to the Highlander were his own;
and checking his pony, as he hnd lost hope of
overtaking them, he trudged quietly round to
the other side of the hill,where (mirubils dicta)
ho met the grey hurrier returning with its rider,
who. upon approaching his master, laid the
dead Imre at his feet, having carried it beneath
his arm from the spot where it was killed hv
Mungo, nearly half a mtlo distant. Mr.-
on lifting up the offering, patted pug on the
hcad.as a reward for his equi-humnn disp/ay of
reason and from that day forward he was look
ed upon by all the old wives and children in
the neighborhood as something so far akin to
an elfin or fairy, that until the day of his death,
which happened shortly after, the urchin who
ventured across the moor of after sun
set or before sunrise, was allowed to be pos
sessed of no small degree of courage. Caledo
nian Mercury.
Horn Tooke's Courage.—Mr Tooko was bv
no means a man of courage ; although from
his hold writing, one might fancy him a hero ;
a champion ready to defend his opinions with
sword and pistol, or even with his fist One,
would think that the man who. in answer to an
attack of ,11101113. could write such words a>
tin- following, must he a person of no ord liar)
nerve. They were these :—
“ The king, whose actions justify rebr>1|, 0
to his government, deserves death from 11°
hand of every subject: nnd, should sm | *
time ariive, I shall he as free to act ns anv v
He made use of a similar remarkable
sion in regard to tho unfortunate King J an , 0 ,
in reference to the desertion of his ariny. gjnj
Mr Tooke knew himself to he entirely dcstV
tuteof real courage; and lie confessed « 0 r»ii
intimate friend, that he was a coward, ‘-j
should have made a bad soldier,” said lie on*
day, laughing, “ for I have been all my lif,,
complete coward : bravery is engendered bv „
long habit; a fearlessness of da-iger in a heart
naturally hold, I never Imd much of this sort
of stamina; and during the restlessness of ti )c
life w hich I have led. the little portion of cou .
rage I possessed, oozed out nt my finger ends
from the continual fret and worry in which j
Imve been kept.
I will tell you tho boldest, tho bravest, the
most outrageous thing I ever did in my whole
life. I was at a meeting at Croydon, where
having stood forward to advocate a certain
question, I was sharply attacked bva fellow of
the name of Phillips; hut, however, I ga c
him such a dressing in reply, that even whilst
I went on tearing him in pieces at every sen,
fence, I tins actually afraid that he would
horsewhip me when I had done, or send me a
clmllengf to fight him. A pretty thing, by the
by, it would he to seo two persons, with pis.
tols under their arms, saluting each other, at
the early hour of five, on a cold frosty morn
ing. Oh yes. I gave the Reverend Mr. Philips
such a drubbing tlmt even I myself was surpri-
sed ofit.”
“ Did his reverence take no notice of it
then ?”
“ Not a word, faith ! lie was as groat u
coward as myself. But lot Ino tell you, sir,
the affair was no less heroic on my part; for I
thought him ns brave as a lion, and I dare sav
my words made him think the same of tno. I
assure you, sir, it requires no small share of
pluck—when you have not tho law at vour
hack—to heard a stout, bully looking fellow,
to bis very teeth, when perhaps lie may ner
pnorning send a bullet tlnongh your brains.”'
Margery Boll, a canty old wife of 63, who
gains an honest livelihood by soiling apples,
who lias been three times a bride and as ofton
a widow, lately took into hor head to be marri-
il again. Her io was a widower of tho name
of James M’Donald, ton years younger than
herself, who served in tho army in the days of
his youth, and who unfortunately for the peace
of poor Maggy, is a veteran in wooing as well
as in fighting—or in othor words, too old a oat
11 to draw a straw before.” On Monday week.
Mnggy went to hor friend James, and request-
cd as a favour that he would speak to 0
neighbour to allow hor tho privilege of stowing
the maist valuable o’ her bits o’ furnature in
his garret, ns the laird was threatening topound
them for rent.” M’Donald’s answer was a
very gallant one—‘ Mnggy ’ said lie, ‘yo ken
wo are widowers, and I dnnny see why we
should pay twa rents, since ane might do verv
well for us baith.’ This was what is called
breaking the ice, and Maggy overjoyed to find
him so complying, modestly replied^ “ I think
sne too ; lmt its no for the like o’ me to speak,
for you men folk hao it a’ in your power.’ By
chatting in this pleasant manner, the happy
pair whiled tho time away till a late hour when
the swain, of course could do no less than
:onvey Maggy Itntno. On the Wednesday fol
loving, he visited her by appointment 1 to tak’
a cup o’ tea, and speak about it,’ and the mat
ter was so fnr arranged thnt M’Donald regret
ted over nnd over again that the want of 'mo
ney should compol him to want a wife for the
present.—‘ Tak’ uao though o’ that,* said
Magsry, ‘ I hao 51., twa pigs, galore o’ apples,
and ilher things, nnd they shall a’ be yours on
the dav o’ the marriage.’ 1 Bravo!’ said M’
Donald, ‘then we’ll aff to Locbmabcn the
morn’s morning, nnd I’ll jost tak’ ane civil
smack nnd bid you good night, my ein canty
Maggy.’ To this proposal Maggy objocted,
and thought he might just as well stay where
he was, and they would bo tho, readier to start
on tho following morning. The swain was not
difficult to persuade, and by five o’clock on
Thursday they were up and on tho road.—
When they reached Maggy’s namesake, 1 tvi’
the mony lochs,’ she gave iter jo 4s. 6. to pay
for what drink might be needed ; but when the
lawn was called ho refused to come down, tint,
levied from his intended a fresh contribution.
Ho next wished to finger the five pounds, hut
Mnggy demurred, and at length confessed that
she had only ono. M’Donald on this waxed
very wroth and exclaimed, 1 them I’ll bo hang
ed girl if I marry ye,’ and though witnesses
were called to attest tho ceremony, the loving
pair retraced their steps homeward, and lite
rally got nothing but their labour for their
pains. On reaching Mnxwcllton they agreed
not to let on but what they were married,’ for
the truth is, a party had been invited to tea, Sic.
and M’Donald’s friends, to the number of thir
ty, spent tho evening in the most joyous man
ner. As the glass circulated, the secret
spunked out, but Maggy spoke of* seeing wli.it
could be done in the morn.’ M’Donald agreed
to accompany her home, amidst the chccr and
congratulation of all present. The morn soon
came, but no 51. note, and liko other hard
hearted swains, who court less for love than a
comfortable dowry, M’Donuld immediately
flew off at a tanget, and left poor Maggy
minus some 10s. or 12s. and even more solita
ry than she had been bofore. Her whole dis
posable wealth, saving always the apples and
the grnmphies had dwindled in to II. collected
in bawbees from bairns; and she may say, nnd
sing too,
“ F° r *he lack of gold he’s left me,
And all that’s dear bereft ine."
Dumfries Courier.
A Dandv’s side arms are his whiskers ; a
Demagogue’s his supplo knees.