bre coloring is artistically toned down and the author has drawn three living portraits. The sisters who are laid to rest in the green graves after a sad though short experience of life's fitful fever, fall victims to the intensity of their mutual love, to the insane crotchets of a feather-brained mother, and to the caprice of a gay young cavalier, who courts, who conquers, and who rides away. But we feel more for the sufferings of the grave clergyman who, having petted the luckless children in the nursery, and won the love of the elder and more thoughtful, buries his affections in one of the graves, and is doomed to an old age unconsoled by oblivion. Yet really he has no cause for regret, since sorrow has sanctified a worldly nature. In "Robert Urquhart," the canvas is rather overcrowded with such parochial worthies as flourished in Glen Quharity and Drumtochty, but though the author seeks his adventurous heroes among school teachers, he makes them human, impressionable, and inThey make love with a spirit and gallantry which leaves little to desire, and their experiences among the Scottish Bohemianism of literary London are as exciting as those in Mr. Barrie's "When a Man's Single."

flammable.

Whether the popularity of the new Scotch novel will endure is a question we hesitate to answer in the affirmative. A moderate amount of the semiintelligible Scottish dialect must go a long way with Southern readers, and already we see signs that even the apostles of the new dispensation cannot repeat themselves with impunity, preserving freshness and originality. There is a certain picturesqueness in weaving Thrums, and there is the sublimity of Highland grandeur in Drumtochty; but, after all, a novelist must rely upon human interest for his effects, and even genius must sooner or later exhaust the materials in a backof-the-world industrial townlet, or а secluded Highland glen. The variety

of individual types is limited, and the general characteristics have been stereotyped by time and custom. It is as tacking and beating about in a land- · locked Highland loch to launching out on the wide Atlantic or braving the storms of Cape Horn.

From The National Review.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S MARRIAGE.
I.

Mr. Anthony Santal, a gentlemancommoner of Christchurch, Oxford, was a person of some distinction, being young, handsome, and possessed of large landed property at Minsteracres, in Derbyshire. He had been deprived in early youth both of father and mother, but had attained his majority in the year 1816, and entered on the enjoyment of his estate.

It was on the last day of the summer term in that year that Mr. Santal, whilst walking in the High street at Oxford, noticed in the window of a jeweller's shop a gold signet ring exposed for sale. Its solid and antique construction arrested his attention, and he entered the shop and inquired its history and price. The jeweller stated that the ring had been dug up at some village in the north of Oxfordshire, and had been brought to him by a laborer. It bore an incised coat of arms of which Santal was shown an impression; and the man added that a competent antiquarian had blazoned it heraldically as Barry nebuly of six argent and sable, showing that the wavy bands by which the shield was crossed were alternately silver and black. He had not been able to ascertain to what family these arms belonged, but there was cut on the inside of the ring a motto, Beando Beatior, which was, he gathered, to be translated, In blessing thou shalt be blessed. Santal's fancy was attracted by the ring, and as the price asked by the jeweller was by no

means excessive, he bought it forthwith, and with a youthful fancy, put it on the third finger of his left hand, which it fitted tolerably well.

He had determined to make the return journey from the university to his home on horseback this summer instead of by stage-coach as was his custom; and as the distance from Oxford to Minsteracres was long enough to occupy several days, he was to take with him a riding servant to carry his mails. He left Oxford on the evening of the 22d of June, 1816, and passed the first night at Woodstock. Late on the afternoon of the 23d he found himself on the confines of Warwickshire; and desiring to see Laffontine Abbey, which lay a little off the main road, he struck across the meadows to the ruins, but sent his servant forward to the village of Winterbourne, where an inn called the Bejant Arms had been recommended to him as a good rest ing-place for the night.

The remains were sufficiently picturesque to induce him to make a pencil sketch of them, for he was more than a tolerable draughtsman. His picture so engrossed his thoughts that he paid little attention to the extreme sultriness of the air, or to the continual mutterings of distant thunder, until a heavy raindrop fell on his paper, and he looked up to see the sky behind him black with ominous thunderclouds.

The storm broke with unusual fury, and though he found shelter in the ruins both for himself and for his horse, two hours elapsed before he ventured to resume his journey. It was now past ten o'clock and the thunder and rain had ceased, but the rising wind swept masses of clouds across the sky, and the night was growing exceedingly dark. Santal was anxious to lose no time in pushing on to Winterbourne, and took what he thought was a short cut back to the highroad, but after a quarter of an hour's riding found himself in miry tillage

fields, and perceived that he had lost his path. As he picked his way carefully through the darkness, he met with a belated peasant who at first seemed alarmed and endeavored to pass on, but on Santal speaking to him excused himself by saying that it was St. John's Eve when spirits walked, and that he had not known what to think of a horseman met in so lonely and unusual a spot. He told Santal that Winterbourne was still eight miles distant, but led him to a lane which would bring him direct to his destination. Santal gave him money and set out at a brisk trot, but he heard the man shouting after him directions to be very careful in fording a brook which crossed the road a mile from Winterbourne.

After riding for three-quarters of an hour he saw a wide sheet of water gleaming before him, and recognized in it the ford of which the man had spoken. But on coming to the brink he hesitated to cross, for the heavy rain had evidently swollen the stream, so that it had overflowed its banks, and was now crossing the road in a raging torrent. The breadth of the water was at least twenty yards; and though white posts had been placed on either side to mark the ford, they were in the middle almost entirely covered.

Glancing round in some doubt, he saw on the right hand, among trees, the lights of a house; and turning his horse towards it determined to inquire there as to the depth of the water, and if he found it impassable to ask shelter for the night. The lights were at no great distance, and the undulating turf, studded at intervals with large trees, convinced him that he was riding through a park; though he had noticed neither paling nor any other enclosure. The sky had grown a little lighter, and he was soon able to make out against it the huddled outline of a large house; but although he was certainly approaching the front of it,

he could not distinguish any road or drive. In a moment more he pulled up before a projecting porch with an arched doorway in the centre of the house, and dismounting, knocked on the heavy oak door with the butt of his riding-whip.

His attention was now engrossed by the behavior of his horse. Ever since entering the park the animal had showed signs of terror and excitement, frequently stopping short, starting aside, and making obstinate endeavors to turn back. The butt of Santal's whip had scarcely sounded on the door when it swung slowly open, as if his coming had been awaited; but at the same moment his horse reared with such suddenness as to snap the rein, and, breaking loose, rushed madly away into the darkness. In wheeling round the animal struck its master with its flank, and flung him violently to the ground.

For a moment Santal was stunned, but almost immediately gathering himself up he saw standing before him in the porch a sober-faced man, dressed entirely in black, and having the appearance of a lackey. Santal was about to ask to whom the house belonged, and to beg that a servant might be sent to look for the runaway horse, when the man, without speak ing, turned back into the house and beckoned to him to follow.

On this invitation Santal entered, and noticed that the hall was bare except for a few oak settles, and a quantity of pikes, helmets, and armor which hung on the walls. The floor was strewn with sprigs of evergreen shrubs, and there was a smell in the air of resin and spices with which the trodden leaves mingled a peculiar odor. Following his conductor, he passed through the corridor and entered a lofty banqueting hall or dining-room, with a large oriel window opening on to a dais at the far end. Here were oaken tables on which were placed trenchers of various kinds of

cakes and fancy bread, cold meats, tankards of liquor, and drinking-cups. The room was entirely empty, though the tables showed that the company had but recently left it; and Santal was surprised to see that the panelled walls were festooned at intervals with bunches of black crape. Again he essayed to question his guide; but the man left the room, saying that he would fetch his mistress.

A few moments elapsed, and then through a side door, which opened on to the dais, there entered a very beautiful girl of eighteen or nineteen years. She was tall in stature, and her pale face and red eyes showed signs of recent weeping. Her dress was of pure white silk; she wore a lace stomacher, and a mass of flaxen hair was confined in a net of heavy gold thread. She walked straight towards Santal, and said, speaking in a low but very clear and musical voice, "You are welcome, sir, to such hospitality as our poor house can offer. You come at a sorry time, and it is but a sorry greeting that we can give you. I pray you be seated and eat, though these are but funeral meats; for we are to-morrow to lay my poor father's body in the grave, and are even now engaged in devotions for the repose of his soul."

With that she motioned him to be seated, and sinking herself on a bench hid her face in her hands and wept bitterly. Santal was deeply moved, and his sorrow and sympathy overcoming his astonishment, he tried every means to comfort and console her, but she remained for some minutes immersed in grief. After a time she collected herself sufficiently to lift her head and to enter into conversation with him. She took from him his heavy riding cloak, hanging it over the back of an oaken settle; and then pressed him to eat and drink. "For the hospitality of my father's house," she said, "hath never failed, nor shall it now, though you be the last to

old.

Bowing to his hostess, he drank deep; the generous liquor warmed him; he felt a strange strength and gladness move through every limb, and the incidents and fatigues of the evening became scarce remembered things. While he humored her by partaking of the food she set before him, he learnt so much of her history, without unduly pressing her or appearing to ask questions, as informed him that she was Cecilia Bejant, only child to the late Roger Bejant, who had died two days before.

She filled his silver cup again, and when he drained the second draught he saw how wonderfully beautiful she was. The great room was but faintly lighted; there were only a few candles of wax placed here and there, but one stood on the table opposite her, and the light fell full on her face. Her hair was of the lightest flaxen, her eyes were liquid blue, and her countenance wore an air of unmistakable distinction.

Santal drained a third draught and felt a new fire coursing in his veins, and knew that it was love. She spoke again in her low, clear voice; and now she no longer kept her head bowed but raised it, looking at him as she spoke, and their glance meeting, he gazed into the depths of her eyes, and read there answering love. She told him that to the bitterness of her father's death was added the bitterness of leaving her home and going as an outcast, she knew not whither. All the

estates passed by entail to a distant cousin, who would have her marry him, and whom she hated; and then she hid her face again and sobbed as though her heart would break.

They were alone in the shadowy hall, and Santal felt an infinite pity steal over him. He moved nearer and sat by her side. "Lady," he said, and his own voice sounded strange to him and like another's, "do not grieve as one without hope. I, Anthony Santal, will give you a home: I will be your protector, and you shall be my wife." He put his arms about her and drew her to him. She did not resist, but rather moved towards him, and a great tenderness mastered him as he felt her young form pressed against him. She hid her face on his breast, and he bent down and kissed very reverently the flaxen hair, and then raised the tear-stained face to his and kissed her on the lips. So she sat, locked in his arms; it seemed a minute; and yet it seemed a lifetime, for the event of a lifetime had happened to him, and his old life stood far away.

They spoke little, and no one entered to interrupt their sweet fancies; but at length the tinkling of a bell, heard faintly from within, roused their attention. The girl rose, and taking her lover by the hand, led him through several passages to another part of the house. They reached at length a Gothic archway, and passing through, Santal found himself in a chapel. Here was a strong scent of incense, and the air was heavy with the fume. A few candles shining through the haze gave a look of unreality to the objects on which their light fell, and left the greater part of the building wrapped in vague gloom. In the aisle there was placed a coffin, supported on tressels, and covered with a rich pall. There were a number of persons present, all kneeling, motionless, and apparently devoutly following the service which a priest was conducting at the altar, his low

monotonous chanting seeming only to intensify the stillness. The girl loosed her hand from Santal's, and, motioning to one of the benches towards the west, on which only one man was sitting, she passed on up the aisle, and knelt on a fald-stool which had evidently been placed for her near the head of the coffin. Santal copied the attitude of his neighbors, and fell on his knees; indeed, the strange solemnity of the scene was well calculated to inspire feelings of sorrow and reverence to the exclusion of all ordinary thoughts and everyday concerns. The low chanting of the priest was only varied at long intervals by his reciting in a louder voice the versicle, "Subvenite Sancti Dei, occurrite Angeli Dei," to which the congregation responded in a deep murmur, "Suscipientes animam ejus."

Santal's attention was at first engrossed in the service that was going forward, and in the effort to distinguish the words of the Latin prayers that the priest was reciting. But after a while the monotony wearied him, his thoughts wandered, and he began to observe his surroundings more accurately. He perceived that the forty or fifty persons present were all men, and all habited in black gowns, and that the priest kneeling at the altar wore a black cope with a Calvary embroidered in scarlet on the back. The altar itself was draped with purple, having on it four lighted candles, and a silver crucifix in the centre. Beside the coffin also were lighted wax candles, of a taper shape, three on either side, in tall silver candlesticks; and by the candles stood mutes gowned in black, whose heads were bowed in an attitude of grief, and entirely veiled in hoods or cowls. The coffin itself was placed with the feet to the east, and covered with a black pall, bordered with silver, and embroidered with a coat of arms, many times repeated. Except for the candles on the altar and those which stood by the coffin,

there was no light in the chapel, but he could see that there was over the altar a large window of the Gothic style, divided by stone mullions; and that the roof was lofty with much ornate timber-work, although the details were lost in obscurity. High up on the walls were suspended helmets, frayed banners, and funeral hatchments with elaborate coats of arms, which the faint light did not permit of his distinguishing.

And still the monotonous chanting went on, and at intervals rose the versicle, "Subvenite Sancti Dei, occurrite Angeli Domini," and the motionless, kneeling mourners responded, “Suscipientes animam ejus."

The figure of Santal's betrothed, for so he now regarded her, kneeling with her flaxen hair and white dress against the pall of the coffin, caught the light from the candles and shone out curiously from the surrounding gloom. She reminded him of kneeling statues of alabaster that he had seen on ancient funeral monuments; her head was bent, and she was absorbed in her devotions. Then his eye wandered from the bowed form to the pall, and he saw that the coat of arms embroidered on it was a plain shield, crossed by wavy bars of silver and black alternately. The tall silver candlesticks which stood at the side of the coffin flung a light sufficiently strong to enable him to decipher the motto repeated in Gothic characters under each shield, and he found it to be "Eeando Beatior." This discovery at once arrested his thoughts and brought him back for a moment to the realm of ordinary life, for he remembered that the gold ring that he had bought at Oxford was charged with similar arms and motto. He took it off his finger and examined to make sure. There were the same wavy bars across the shield, and on the inside the same inscription, "Beando Beatior," which he now recognized as a motto punning on the name of Bejant, in the