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biographer most truly says, those who Lord Saltire very rarely spoke of him, once saw his face never forgot it. and, when he did, generally in a cynical Charles Ravenshoe had that faculty manner. But General Mainwaring and also, though, alas, his value, both in Lady Ascot knew that that poor boy's worth and utility, was far inferior to that memory was as fresh in the true old of the man to whom I have alluded above. heart after forty years, as it was on the But he had the same infinite kindliness morning when he came out from his towards everything created; which is part dressing-room and met them carrying of the secret.
the corpse upstairs. The first hint that William had, as to “He was a good fellow," said Lord how deeply important person a Charles Hainault, alluding to Charles. “He was among the present company, waswas a very good fellow." given him at dinner. Various subjects “This great disappointment which I had been talked of indifferently, and have had about him," said Lord Saltire, William had listened, till Lord Hainault in his old dry tone, “is a just judgsaid to William,
ment on me for doing a goodnatured “What a strange price people are and virtuous action many years ago. giving for cobs! I saw one sold to. When his poor father Densil was in day at Tattersall's for ninety guineas.” prison, I went to see him, and reconciled
William answered, “Good cobs are him with his family. Poor Densil was very hard to get, my lord. I could get so grateful for this act of folly on my you ten good horses over fifteen, for one part that I grew personally attached to good cob.”
him; and hence all this misery. DisLord Saltire said, “My cob is the interested actions are great mistakes, best I ever had ; and a sweet-tempered Maria, depend upon it.” creature. Our dear boy broke it for me W hen the ladies were gone upstairs, at Ravenshoe.”
William found Lord Saltire beside him. “Dear Charles," said Lady Ascot. He talked to him a little time, and then “ What a splendid rider he was! Dear finished by saying, boy! He got Ascot to write him a cer- “You are modest and gentlemanly, tificate about that sort of thing before and the love you bear for your fosterhe went away. Ah, dear!”
brother is very pleasing to me indeed. “I never thought,” said Lord Saltire, I am going to put it to the test. You quietly, “ that I ever should have cared must come and see me to-morrow mornhalf as much for anybody as I do for ing. I have a great deal to say to you." that lad. Do you remember, Mainwar- “About him, my lord? Have you ing," he continued, speaking still lower heard of him ?” while they all sat hushed, “ the first “Not a word. I fear he has gone to night I ever saw him, when he marked America or Australia. He told Lord for you and me at billiards,'at Ranford ? Ascot he should do so." I don't know why, but I loved the boy “I'll hunt him to the world's end, from the first moment I saw him. Both my lord,” said true William. “And there and ever afterwards, he reminded Cuthbert shall pray for me the while. I me so strongly of Barkham. He had fear you are right. But we shall find just the same gentle, winning way with him soon." him that Barkham had. Barkham was When they went up into the drawinga little taller, though, I fancy,” he went room, Mary was sitting on a sofa by heron, looking straight at Lady Ascot, and self. She looked up at William, and he taking snuff. “Don't you think so, went and sat down by her. They were Maria ?”
quite away from the rest, together. No one spoke for a moment.
“Dear William,” said Mary, looking Lord Barkham had been Lord Saltire's frankly at him, and laying her hand on only son. He had been killed in a duel his.
see your dear, sweet face again. I was down at Ravenshoe last week. How they love you there! An idea prevails among old and young that dear Cuthbert is to die, and that I am to marry you, and that we are to rule Ravenshoe triumphantly. It was useless to represent to them that Cuthbert would not die, and that you and I most certainly never would marry one another. My dearest Jane Evans was treated as a thing of nought. You were elected mistress of Ravenshoe unanimously."
“How is Jane ?”
“Pining, poor dear, at her school. She don't like it.”
“I should think not," said Mary. “Give my dear love to her. She will make you a good wife. How is Cuthbert?"
“Very well in health. No more signs of his heart complaint, which never existed. But he is peaking at getting no tidings from our dear boy.
Ah, how he loved him! May I call you “Mary ?!"
“You must not dare to call me anything else. No tidings of him yet ?"
“None. I feel sure he is gone to America. We will get him back, Mary. Never fear.”
They talked till she was cheerful, and at last she said
“William, you were always so wellmannered; but how-how-have you got to be so gentlemanly in so short a time?”
“By playing at it,” said William, laughing. “The stud-groom at Ravenshoe used always to say I was too much of a gentleman for him. In twenty years' time I shall pass muster in a crowd. Good night.”
And Charles was playing at being something other than a gentleman all the time. We shall see who did best in the end.
To be continued.
BY ALEXANDER SMITH.
DURING the spring of 1860, there appeared in several of the Scottish newspapers, accompanied with some brief paragraphs of sorrow, an intimation of the death of Mr. Hugh Macdonald, in Glasgow, at the early age of forty-seven. Eighteen months and more have now passed, and it has seemed fit that here some little cairn should be erected to his memory. The event recorded in the newspaper paragraphs was certainly not a matter of national importance; but a loss, nevertheless, felt by many in the Scottish shires, and by many who heard of it some weeks or months later, in New Brunswick, Australia, and the North and South Americas. For the deceased had the rare knack of making friends of those with whom he came in contact. Nor was the depth of personal friendship long untested. Cut off in middle life, and when he was making way, his
family was believed to be but slenderly provided for Subscription sheets immediately issued, and with such success that his widow is now beyond the fear of want, and his children are certain of a sound education, and a start in life thereafter. Those of his friends who were at the time resident in Glasgow, and privileged to walk behind his coffin to the grave, describe the scene as possessing elements of strangeness. A most inclement day of rain, yet the longextended procession remained unbroken; and while on the slippery grave-brink friend and relative held each a cord, and the coffin was being lowered, an old woman, unknown to any, took her place there, and gazed wistfully down, till the clay covered all, and then went her way. Doubtless her appearance represented some word spoken, or service rendered, by the kind heart then cold, which probably had faded long ago from its re
membrance, but which lingered gratefully and yet more splendid the westward-runin hers.
ning Clyde in which the sun is setting. But why should she so remember word He was one of those too-of whom or service of his? Why did his fellowwe Scotchmen are peculiarly proud, concitizens manifest so deep an interest in ceiting ourselves, as we are accustomed, those he left behind ? Apart from his that they do more abound among us gifts of leal-heartedness, tenderness, and than elsewhere-who, born in humble humour, Mr. Macdonald was a man of circumstances, and with no aid from genius-a poet, an antiquarian, the college, and but little from school, do devoutest lover of beast and bird, of actually achieve some positive literary snowdrop and lucken-gowan, sun setting result, and a certain recognition of the on Bothwell bank, broad placid harvest- same. He was born in one of the moon, shining down on Clydesdale eastern districts of Glasgow, lived for barley-fields. He was in his own de- some time in the Island of Mull, in the gree one of the poets who have, since house of a relative there ; for, as his Burns's time, made nearly every district name imports, he was a true Celt, and of Scotland vocal. Just as Tannahill drew from his sires song, melancholy, and has made Gleniffer hills greener by his superstition. The superstition he never songs, as Thom of Inverury has lent a could completely shake off. He could new interest to the banks of the Dee, laugh at a ghost story, he could deck it as Scott Riddell has added a note to the out with grotesque or humorous exagBorder Minstrelsy, Mr. Macdonald has gerations ; but the central terror glared taken poetic possession of the country upon him through all disguises, and, around Glasgow. Neither for him nor hearing or relating, his blood was runfor any of his compeers can the title of ning chill the while. Returning to his great poet be claimed, but they are not native city, he was entered an apprentice the less delightful on that account in a public manufactory, and here it was These men are local poets; and, if you —fresh from ruined castle, mist-folding know and love the localities, you accept on the Morven hills, tales told by thankfully the songs with which they mountain shepherd or scaly fisherman have associated them. If the scenery of corpse lights glimmering on the sea; of a shire is gentle and tame, it seems and with English literature before him, fitting that the poet of the shire should wherein to range and take delight in possess a genius in keeping with it. precious shreds of leisure ; and with And in its degree, a mountain-daisy is everything, past highland experience, quite as beautiful as a garden-rose or a and present dim environment, beginflaming rod of hollyhock; a green lane, ning to be overspread by the “purple fragrant with hawthom hedges, charm- light of love ” – that Mr. Macdonald ing as any Alpine valley. Great scenes became a poet. And, considering the demand great poems - simple scenes, whole matter now, it may be said, that simple poems. Coleridge's Hymn in his circumstances were more favourable the Vale of Chamouni is a noble per- for the development of the poetic spirit, formance, but it would never do to be than if he had been born in a Cumberuttered in a green Lanarkshire glen land vale, with no harsher task than where sheep are feeding, and where you image-hunting urged upon him by pecumay search the horizon in vain for an niary considerations. Glasgow, at the elevation of five hundred feet. It is period we speak of, could boast of her not a very bold assertion, that Mr. Mac- poets. Dugald Moore was writing, donald could not have approached Cole- publishing, and being quizzed by his ridge's Hymn, even had he been placed companions. Motherwell, the author of in Chamouni; but he has really done “Jeanie Morrison," was the editor of poetic justice to the scenery that sur- the Courier, and fighting manfully in rounded him—made the ivies on Crooks its columns against Reform. Alexander
the publication of a wicked and witty clouds" above them, the torrent flashing welcome-singular in its likeness and in the rocky gorge on the hillside, the contrasts to the Magician's own—on the ruins of Stanley Tower standing on the occasion of the visit of his Gracious plain below—scarce a change since TannaMajesty George IV. to Edinburgh, was hill walked there on summer evenings. filling the newspapers of the West with South-east stretched the sterile district of satirical verses, and getting himself into the Mearns, where Christopher North lived grief thereby. Nay, more, this last when a boy, and where Pollock herded “Makar" either then, or at a later period, cows. And beyond, in a green crescent held a post in the manufactory in which embracing the sea, a whole Ayrshire Mr. Macdonald was apprenticed. Nor fiery and full of Burns; into which, dying, was the eye without education, or the poet's whole nature sank, making memory without associations to feed passionate soil and stone; with his daisy upon. Before the door of this manu blooming in every furrow, every stream factory lay Glasgow Green, with the tree as it ran seaward mourning for Highyet green under which Prince Charles land Mary, and, when night fell, in every stood when he reviewed his shoeless tavern in the county, the blithest lads highland host before marching to Falkirk. in Christendie sitting over their cups Near the window, and to be seen by the and flouting the horned moon hanging boy every time he lifted his head, flowed in the window-pane. And then, to comthe Clyde, bringing recollections of the plete a poetic education, there was red ruins of Bothwell Castle, where the Glasgow herself-noble river and dark Douglasses dwelt, and the ivy-muffled groves of masts, begirt by miles of stony walls of Blantyre Priory, where the streets; grand cathedral, filled once with monks prayed, and carrying imagination popish shrines and rolling incense, on with it as it flowed seaward to Dun- one side of the ravine, and on the other, barton Castle, with its legends old as the statue of John Knox, impeaching it Ossian, and recalling as it sank into with outstretched arm, that clasps a ocean the night when Bruce, from his Bible. And ever as the darkness came, lair in Arran, watched the beacon the district north-east and south of the broadening on the Carrick shore. And city was filled with shifting glare and from the same windows, looking across gloom of furnace fires; instead of night the stream, he could see the long strag- and its privacy, the keen splendour of gling burgh of Rutherglen, with the towering flame brought to the inhabitchurch-tower, where the bargain was ants of the eastern streets a fluctuating struck with Monteith for the betrayal scarlet day, piercing nook and cranny of Wallace, standing eminent above the more searchingly than any sunlight. trees. And, when we know that the Mr. Macdonald set himself sedulously girl who was afterwards to become his to poetic work ; and, whatever may be wife was growing up there, known and the value of his wares, it may be said loved at the time, we can fancy how that excellent material lay on every often his eyes dwelt on the little town, side. with church-tower and chimney fretting To him all these things had their the sky-line. And when Macdonald uses. We picture him a young fellow rambled-and he always did ramble of excellent literary digestion, capable of inevitably deeper impulses would come extracting nutriment from the toughest to him. Northward from Glasgow some materials; assiduously making acquaintfew miles, at Rob Royston, where ance with English literature in his evenWallace was betrayed, lived Walter ings; gradually taking possession of the Watson, whose songs have been sung by British essayists, poets, and historians. many who never heard his name. Seven As this time, too, he cherished republican miles southward of the city lay Paisley feelings, and had his own speculations in its smoke, and beyond that, Gleniffer concerning the regeneration of the whole Braes, “laverocks fanning the snaw-white human race; and these feelings he re
Violet, lily, rose, all perished
Fragrance fled from field and dell.
Songless are thy woods, October !
Save when redbreast's mournful lay Through the calm grey morn is swelling, To the list'ning echoes telling
Tales of darkness and decay.
tained till his own personal hurt made him forget the pained world. In his later days, however, he was willing to let the world wag, certified that the needful thing for him was to take regard to his own private footsteps. He had now fairly embarked on the poetic tide. His name, appended to copies of verses, frequently appeared in the local prints, and gained for him no small amount of local notice. And at intervals some song-bird of his brain, of stronger pinion or gayer plumage than usual, would fit from newspaper to newspaper ‘across the country ; nay, one or two actually appeared beyond the Atlantic, and, not unnoticed by admiring eyes, perching on a broadsheet here and there as it made its way from the great eities towards the western clearings. All this time, too, he was an enthusiastic botanist in book and field, a lover of the open country and the blowing wind, a scorner of fatigue, ready any Saturday afternoon when work was over for a walk of twenty miles, if so be he might look on a rare flower or an ivied ruin. And the girl
run. And the girl over in Rutherglen was growing up to womanhood, each charm of mind and face celebrated for many a year in glowing verse ; and her he, poet-like, married-the household plenishing of the pair being abundance of hope and a simple disregard of the inconveniences arising from straitened means. The happiest man in the world—but a widower before the year was out! With his wife died many things, all
many things, all buried in one grave. Republican dreamings and schemes for the regeneration of the world faded after that. Here is a short poem, full of the rain-cloud and the yellow leaf, which has reference to his feelings at the time.
Saddest sounds are thine, October !
Music of the falling leaf;
“Thus all gladness sinks in grief."
More than budding, blooming spring.
Memory loves thy dusky wing.
Death laid low my bosom flower.
Gleameth brightly since that hour.
Mine is slumbering in the clay;
For its own October day. His own October day did come; too early, unseasonably, when the fields were but whitening to the harvest.
All Mr. Macdonald's friends have heard of his interview with Professor Wilson, at Edinburgh, in 1846. This celebrated event flourished perennially in his writings and conversation. It stood out in his history like the Battle of Trafalgar in the History of Eng. land. For him nothing could stale its infinite delightfulness. He had come up from Paisley to “Scotia’s darling seat.” as he chooses to call it, for a day or two, and, while there, wandered down the Canongate to visit Ferguson's grave, and to look on Holyrood with romantic remembrances of Mary, and the profoundest belief in the authenticity of Rizzio's blood-stains ; spent an autumn day roaming about Roslin and Hawthornden; and in the afternoon, seated in the inn at Lasswade, he indited an epistle to Wilson, expressing the great pleasure he had derived from his “Noctes” and other writings, inclosing at the same time a
Gorgeous are thy woods, October !
Clad in glowing mantles sere; Brightest tints of beauty blending, Like the west when day's descending,
Thou'rt the sunset of the year.
Fading flowers are thine, October !
Droopeth sad the sweet blue-bell :