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VOL. I.
[From Southern Society.J
“Non Judical”
BY ALLEYSE HABRY.
In a solemn chapel, gorgeously bedigbt,
A still form rested in the solemn lighC
That streamed through the pictur’d pane, and pass’d,
In chasten’d, prismal rays, upon the last,
The deepest sleep that e'er was given to man.
Two women watch’d—the only mourners there,
And they were young, and each was passing fair.
One calmly paced the tesselated pave,
And, brushing e’en the shadow of the grave,
Her sheeny satin robes fell trailing down,
As if to mock the sadness brooding round.
She was a widow'd bride; still lilies rare
Lay in her breast, and trembled on her hair.
But one knelt low in mourning raiment clad :
Her golden hair fell loose, her lips so sad •
Smiled e’en at grief, while hunger unexpress'd
Gleam’d from her eye -and, in its strong unrest,
Her heart each heavy bursting sob suppress’d
And strove to quell the pain yet unconfess’d.
Softly her taper fingers now, each tress
That stray’d upon his forehead would caress,
And oft she kiss'd his pallid brow in Death,
Praying she might revive him with her breath.
The other gaze’d serene upon it all.
With proud dark looks, nor touch’d the sombre pell
That hung so near, and with her scornful mein
And flashing glance, said: “ Leave me. here with him:
My place is by his side, alone, to-night!”
She merely raised her brow, like ivory white,
And, ’neath the lashes shone the purple light.
Her voice so sweet, with deep impassion’d woe,
Spoke soft: ‘‘Nay, nay, but ’tis thyself must go !
What was his life to thee, but for his gold ?
What is he now, who lies forever cold ?
Oh! dio’ the world slialt say thou wert his wife,
/ only lov'd him all my woman's life!
The living thine ? The dead is then my own :
Nay ! I will never go!”
1 iieu, with her snowy arms she clasp'd him there,
The one most dear; her heart in its despair
Breaking upon his own. Her drooping head
Bent on the pillow low beside the dead,
/-etting her hair in shining glory fall,
An aureole of light upon the pali.
God saw her anguish, and an angel came
To lay a cool hand on the burning flame
Os sorrow ’s tide, and gently loos’d the thread
That fetter’d life from which all hope had fled.
Say! is there aught ol' earth, or yet above,
With power so infinite as thine, oh! Love ?
Yea! thou art stronger than the King of Death.
If mandate can but steal away our breath ;
1.0 e burns anew in the Great Life beyond.
Purer and truer there, though scarce less fond;
Though it has pass'd the ordeal of the grave,
Tis but true metal from the dross to save;
And, at the last, more glorious than we dream,
Love, in that land, forever reigns supreme.
The Earls of Sutherland.
I>Y RUTH FAIRFAX.
PAHT~SECOISrD.
| CONTINUED.]
CHAPTER IV.
Rain does not. always fall, not even in
the Highlands, and at last the sun shone
brilliantly. Hay alter day, Arthur and
John wei e out hunting'. Ormand was
* a *t recovering his strength ; the hue of
health flushed his cheek, and the light of
happiness beamed m Emily’s eyes. The
Summer went on ; and still they lingered.
Tut now, at last, time is very near at
hand when they must stay no longer.
Already, the sharp winds of Autumn make
Ormand shiver, and they determine upon
a hasty departure. And not only for this
reason ; the country was becoming un
settled ; the Highlanders had swept
Gown upon the Lowlands, ravaging all
before them. Ihe Lowlanders had way
laid a group of Highlanders and cruelly
murdered them. They must hasten their
departure. But one more sweet ramble
in the woods and mountains can be
granted them ; and they rise early one
morning, that they may have the full
nay before them. They wander through
die pleasant glens, clamber over the
j ugged rocks, and, at last, reach the lone-
V spot where they are to rest. The
grand old mountains rise on every hand,
da ir sides glowing here and there with
Jhe purple heather ; away on the moor
amd, a flock oi sheep are browsing on the
gotss , a wild stream dashes down the
g‘nn, so boisterous now that you may
| easily guess what it would be in stormy
j weather.
And here they rested, and told those
j new friends, who had grown to be such
dear friends, in those long Summer days
that were passed, how they could laugh
now at the impressions they had received
of the War Donalds.
“But you are a wild race !” exclaimed
Arthur, laughing ; “come, tell us whence
you sprung ; from some wild ‘son of the
mist,’ I’ll ventiuo to say.”
“Or from Diarmid, ‘the son of the
morning,’ ” said Emily.
“From neither ” answered John ; “the
McDonalds originally sprang from one
Godfrey, who had four sons ; from these
four spring the various branches of the
McDonald’s, the Chiefs of Keppoch,
Glencoe, the McDonalds of Sleat and
others. Where was there ever a warrior
like the founder of our race ? he dashed
upon the Lowlands like an eagle, and
never returned to iiis home empty hand
ed; never was he known to take an insult;
never was a stranger turned away from
his door.”
“L can well believe that,” said Ormand;
“and the trait has been handed down
to his descendants. For though we do
not call ourselves strangers row, yet we
were when we first sought shelter in your
house.’*
“Yes, and you have only stayed long
enough to make yourselves dear to us. and
now you are going away !” exclaimed
John, starting from his seat, and excit
edly pacing the uneven ground.
“Rut we hope to meet again, soon,” said
I Emily, who, also, felt grieved at the#pros
! pect. of parting with these true friends.
| “We hope—to yes,” repeated John,
| emphatically ; “but how know we that
our hopes will be realized ? Laugh at me,
if you will, my friends, but a dark
flits before me, and I fear that when we
i part, it will be to meet no more!”
“I can not laugh at such a feeling,
thougli I do not share it,” said Emily, rest
ing her hand on his arm; “you are too much
grieved at our departure, dear friend;
but will you not listen to our entreaties,
and return to Sutherland Hall with us !”
“Nay; rather will not some of you re
main here with us ?” answered John,
shaking back the hair from his brow, and
looking down upon the group before him.
“How can we?” said Emily; “you
know Ormand could not brave your
fierce Winter, and I must go with Or
mand. If you can persuade Arthur and
Arny to stay, I will not object,”
“To tell the truth, I am too anxious
to see ’Regie to delay my departure,”
answered Arthur;” but you inay rest as
sured I will be back in the Spring, if I
live till then.”
“You will not blame me, John; you
see I have not used my influence to in
duce them to go with me. and yet they
have decided to go.” ♦
“They! I haven’t heard any one but
Arthur refuse yet to stay,” replied John,
a faint flush mantling his brow.
“Amy!” exclaimed Emily; “she does
not wish to stay ;” and she turned to
wards Amy.
But Amy turned her crimson cheek
away, and said nothing.
“\ r ou do not answer me, Amy: do you
wish to stay ?” asked Ormand.
And still Amy answered not; her fin
gers were nervously pulling the tiny wild
flowers to pieces.
“And it she wished it, would you con
sent?’ - asked John eagerly, his fine eyes
fixed upon Ormand’s face, and bending
forward with an air of anxious expecta
tion
“You seem to be a good deal more in
earnest than you were when you were
pleading for my presence,” said Arthur,
laughing; “what say you, Amy; it shall
he as you wish ?”
“1 would like to go home, and then—
then return !” .-aid Amy, ig a low voice.
“Return!” echoed Emily and Ormand,
while Arthur laughed a little low laugh
to himself.”
GUV., NOVEMBER 28, 1868.
“Oh. you blinder than moles!” he ex
claimed at length; “there sits Amy with
cheeks like damask roses, and there
stands John near her, his whole face
beaming with light and love, and yet you
echo return! as if you had never heard
the word before 1”
“Love !” excaimed Emily; “impossi
ble!” * *
“And why impossible?” asked the
usually timid Amy, rising to her feet, and
looking steadily at her sister.
“I don’t know,”, answered Emi
ly; “no, not impossible, I suppose, but so
—sc —improbable I”
“But why ?” persisted Amy; yet her
cheeks were crimson, and she now looked
appealingly to Arthur.
“Because you are so little, Amy, and
he is such a giant; I expect that is the
reason,” laughed Arthur.
“Oh! no; that is no objection,” said
Emily, smiling.
“Then, what is your objection ?” asked
Arthur.
“I have none,” replied Emily.
“You have none! you do not object to
my loving Amy,” exclaimed John, catch
ing Emily’s hand; “tell me then, dear lady
Emily, you will give your sister to me!
Oh ! I will cherish her as I would my
heart’s blood!”
Amy walked away with Arthur, while
John spoke with ! ,r sister.
“You need not give me that assurance,
John; I believe you would care for tier as
I could wish; but, would Amy be con
tent to live in.this almost unbroken soli
tude ? would not she long for the society
she has been so long accustomed to ?”
“If she wished it, I would live in Lon
don, or with you ; I would bend my will
to please her. Only say that you will
give her to me, lady Emily, and you
shall say where we must live !”
“It would be almost useless to refuse,
for I see that Amy wishes me to consent
But do not think my hesitation has been
caused by reluctance. I was so much
surprised, that I scarcely knew what to
say. Let her return with us, John, and
you may come after and claim her!”
“Oh! how can I thank you!” exclaim
ed John; but, without even trying to do
it, he sprang away with a bound like a
mountain deer, to seek Amy and Arthur.
Arthur soon returned to Emily’s side, and
declared himself delighted at the turn
affairs had taken; ands though Emily
could not restrain a few tears, yet she ac
knowledged that no nobler heart could be
found than the one that beat in the bosom
of John McDonald, of Glencoe.
And so it was settled ; and, the next
morning, their journey homeward was
commenced; ere long, they arrived
safely, but greatly fatigued, at their
house in London, where Regie and
Eugenia were already established, and
anxiously awaiting their arrival.
CHAPTER V.
“Amy, what shall 1 wear?” asked
Eugenia, turning suddenly from the
window, where she had been looking list
lessly forth for nearly half an hour.
"What shall I wear, Amy ?”—still Amy
did not answer; her cheek rested on her
hand, and her elbow was supported by
the arm of the chair in which she was
sitting. Her eyes had that misty far
away look that we see in persons whose
thoughts are wandering far away from
the place where they are. Eugenia looked
smilingly upon her, and repeated her
question a third time: “What shall I wear
to Lady Mary Howard’s ball, Amy?”
“Yes, certainly,” replied Amy.
“You think the costume would be very
elegant, do you not, Amy ?”
“Oh! yes,” answered Amy, roused, at
length, and trying, in vain, to recollect
what her sister had said before.
“Hew stupid I am!” said Eugenia,
smiling; “was it green or blue, I said,
Amy? I really have forgotten.”
“I— 1—” said Amy.
“Why don’t you tell the truth, Amy,
and say that you did not hear what I
said ?—here you are pretending to know
what costume I proposed to wear, and I
merely asked you what I should wear.”
“I confess it, sister, I was in a deep
study, just then; I did not hear what you
said.”
“You were thinking of that Highland
Chief, wore you not, Amy ?”
“You were asking me what you should
wear, ’Genie ?” said Amy, without no
ticing her sister’s question.
“Y r cs, I wish to consult your taste,”
answered ’Genie, smiling at her sister’s
confusion.
“Rut let us call Emily; she can direct
you better than I can.”
"No, rather let us call Regie; his taste
is most exquisite.”
“Who is thinking of her Chief, even
if he is not a Highlander ?” said Amy,
not sorry of having an opportunity of re
turning Eugenia’s raillery.
“Oh! I acknowledge it—l think of my
lover all the time : for, though six months
a husband, Regie is still a lover. I hope
you may he able to say the same of your
Highland lover, after you have been mar
ried six months !”
“You have never seen him yet,
’Genie; when you do, you will be satisfied
with my choice; as it is now, I more
than half suspect that you do not like the
idea of having a Scotch brother ?”
“I do not like the idea of your marry
ing a stranger, Apry ; there are so many
noble lords here, who are sueing for
your hand, and you might find a more—
well, to tell the truth—a more civilized
husband than the son of Mac lan, ot
Glencoe !”
Amy laughed outright. “You have not
seen him yet, ’Genie !”
“I know I have not, and I am not in
any particular hurry to make his ac
quaintance. Why, Arthur says he is
more than six feet high, and has, oh!
such enormous hands and big eyes !”
“Arthur is only teasing you, ’Genie;
John is very handsome, and—”
She paused, as ’Genie cast'a look of
comic horror upon her.
“Handsome ! a man over six feet high,
handsome ! Nonsense, Amy, I know he
is a perfect bear.”
“Who is a perfect bear ?” asked Ar
thur, entering the room.
“Why, that Highlander, John Mac lan,
or MacDonald, Glencoe, or whatever you
call him,” answered ’Genie, with just a
little bit of a pout, “why, the man’s name
is enough to condemn him. ’
“But you can’t expect everybody to
get as pretty a name as your own!” said
Amy, good-naturedly.
“No, not everybody ; but you could.”
11 1 could ; why, is there another name
that you think as pretty as Sutherland ?”
“No, indeed ! but you could get that
name, if you wished; here’s Arthur,
why—”
“Why don’t I ask him to marry me ?
is that what you were going to say?
Come now, ’Genie, that would be worse,
even, than martring the Highland
Chief.” “
“Fray, don’t ask me !” cried Arthur,
laughing; “I don’t want that giant's lingers
round my throat, or his big green eyes
‘glowering’ at me!”
“For shame, Arthur ! It is you
who have frightened ’Genie so about
John !” exclaimed Amy ; and, what if he
is big, you can’t expect the world to be
made up of little men like you and Or
mand ; yes, and Reginald, too !” glancing
a little spitefully at ’Genie, as she spoke.
“Well, don’t say any more about it;
he will be here before long, and ’Genie
can see for herself,” said Arthur.
“I can wait,” answered ’Genie ; “but
Arny has not yet answered my question;
I asked her what I-should wear to Lady
Mary Howard’s ball. If she will not an
swer me, I must call Emily, and consult
her taste, as Regie has not yet come in.”
“Oh! the peerless Reginald !” said
Arthur, in a mocking toD(*.
“No one thinks him more perfect than
you do, Arthur, although you are pretend
ing* to sneer at me,” said Eugenia.
“Seriously, then, ’Genie; I do think
him very near perfect, and, upon my
honor, you need not fear that you will
blush to own your Highland brother-in
law. He is almost a giant, it is true, and
our pretty little Amy will be a bonnie
wee bride for him ; but what of that ?—a
man that has as handsome a form as he
has can afford to have plenty of it.”
“Then, lie is not ugly?” asked ’Genic,
with so much anxiety in her voice, that
Arthur laughed heartily, and Amy, to put
an end to his teasing, took up a small box
from the table, and emptied its contents
into her lap.
“Those are my patterns, Amy, and I
want you to help me select a dress.”
“Select a dress from those tiny bits of
silk?” said Arthur, lifting them iu his
fingers.
“These are only samples; as soon as
Amy selects one, I will send it, and get
the dress.”
“I like this,” said Amy, holding* .up a
bit of blue brocade, with tiny silver flowers
scattered over it.
“Oh ! yes, that would look well for
you, but my style requires something
brighter. You take that blue, Amy, and
I will get this rose pink, and aim it with
falls of ricli. lace,”
“I prefer a plain white dress for my
self,” answered Amy, and will get one
like this white silk. It will do very well
for von, ’Genie, who are a rich man’s
wife, to dress so expensively; but the one
I expect to marry lias not the wealth of
Reginald, and I must keep my own little
fortune untouched to offer him.”
“John doesn’t want your fortune, Aim*,
and would be the first one to condemn
such a proposition as you made just now.
Get whatever you wish, dear child, ami
do not believe that the Earls of Suther
land will ever let one of their family go
dowerless to the house of a stranger,”
said Arthur, earnestly.
“But I do not want anything very ex
pensive, Cousin Arthur; and I think John
would prefer the white dress to any
other.”
“Oh ! you sly little puss, that is the
reason why you want the dress. I thought
you were getting very economical ! Let
it be white, by ail means, if John likes it
best.”
“Why do you tease Amy so much about
John ?’’ said Emily*, who had entered the
room, unperecived ; “you are too mis
chievous, Arthur.”
“Well, Ivnui’t help it, Emily ; Amy
has been trying to make us believe she
wants to get a white dress, because it is
cheapest, but the real reason has come
out, at last —John likes white the best,
and site is expecting him.” 4,
“And I have decided on the ro-e-color
ed silk,” said Eugeni;#
“You have done well,” replied Emily;
“it is just what I would have chosen for
you; trim it with wide lace, and wear
your diamonds.”
“You ladies are forever talking about
dress. Come, Amy, let us go into our
library, where we can talk in peace !”
Arthur lose from his seat, and Amy
gladly granted his request.
The days wore away, and the evening
came at length, when Lady* Mary How
ard’s rooms were to be crowded with well
dressed, frivolous gentlemen and still
more frivolous ladies.
Eugenia moved a very queen of beauty
among the fairest; but the timid, retiring
Amy kept near her sister Emily, until
the Earl of Surrey*, with a much brighter
smile than usual hovering around his lips,
came and besought her to walk with him
in the gardens. More than willing was
Amy to get away from the glare and
glitter of the ball-room. The cool air of
evening lifted the curls from her brow,
and never had she looked as charming
to the eyes of our grave friend, Duke, as
she did then, standing among* the flowers,
the pale light of the moon struggling with
the bright'radiance of the colored lights
No. 37.
