a wonderful likeness to Charles Ravens hoe that Lady Hainault and General Mainwaring, the only two who had never seen him before, started, and thought they saw Charles himself. It was not Charles, though; it was our old friend, William, whilom pad-groom to Charles Ravenshoe, Esquire, now himself William Ravenshoe, Esquire, of Ravenshoe.

He was the guest of the evening. He would be heir to Ravenshoe himself some day; for they had made up their minds that Cuthbert would never marry. Ravenshoe, as Cuthbert was managing it now, would be worth ten or twelve thousand a year, and, if these new tin lodes came to anything, perhaps twenty! He had been a stable-helper, said old Lady Hainault-the companion of the drunken riots of his foster-brother impostor, and that quiet gentlemanly creature Welter! If he entered the house, she left it! To which young Lady Hainault had replied that some one must ask him to dinner in common decency, if it was only for the sake of that dear Charles, who had been loved by every one who knew him. That she intended to ask him to dinner, and that, if her dear mother-in-law objected to meet him, why the remedy lay with herself! Somebody must introduce him to some sort of society; and Lord Hainault and herself had made up their minds to do it, so that further argument on the subject would be wasted breath! To which the Dowager replied that she really wished, after all, that Hainault had married that pretty chit of a thing, Adelaide Summers, as he was thinking of doing; as she, the Dowager, could not have been treated with greater insolence even by her, bold as she was. With which Parthian piece of spite she had departed to Casterton with Hicks, and had so goaded and snapped at that unfortunate reduced gentlewoman by the way, that at last Hicks, as her wont was, had turned upon her and given her as good as she brought. If the Dowager could have heard Lady Hainault telling her lord the whole business that night, and joking with him about his alleged penchant for Adelaide, and heard the

jolly laugh that those two good souls had about it, her ladyship would have been more spiteful still.

But, nevertheless, Lady Hainault was very nervous about William. When Mary was consulted, she promptly went bail for his good behaviour, and pled his cause so warmly that the tears stood in her eyes. Her old friend William! What innocent plots she and he had hatched together against the priest in old times! What a bond there was between them in their mutual love for him who was lost to them!

But Lady Hainault would be on the safe side; and so only the party named above were asked. All old friends of the family!

Before dinner was announced they were all at their ease about him. He was shy certainly, but not awkward. He evidently knew that he was asked there on trial, and he accepted his position. But he was so handsome (handsomer than poor Charles), he was so gentle and modest, and perhaps, too, not least had such a well modulated voice, that before the evening was over he had won every one in the room. If he knew anything of a subject he helped the conversation quietly, as well as he could; if he had to confess ignorance (which was seldom, for he was among well-bred people) he did so frankly, but unobtrusively. He was a great success.

One thing puzzled him, and pleased him. He knew that he was a person of importance, and that he was the guest of the evening. But he soon found that there was another cause for his being interesting to them all, more powerful than his curious position or his prospective wealth; and that was his connexion with Charles Ravenshoe, now Horton. He was the hero of the evening. Half William's light was borrowed from him. He quickly became aware of it, and it made him happy.

How strange it is that some men have the power of winning such love from all they meet. I knew one, gone from us now by a glorious death, who had that faculty. Only a few knew his great worth and goodness; and yet, as his

biographer most truly says, those who once saw his face never forgot it. Charles Ravenshoe had that faculty also, though, alas, his value, both in worth and utility, was far inferior to that of the man to whom I have alluded above. But he had the same infinite kindliness towards everything created; which is part of the secret.

The first hint that William had, as to how deeply important person a Charles was among the present company, was given him at dinner. Various subjects had been talked of indifferently, and William had listened, till Lord Hainault said to William,

"What a strange price people are giving for cobs! I saw one sold today at Tattersall's for ninety guineas."

William answered, "Good cobs are very hard to get, my lord. I could get you ten good horses over fifteen, for one good cob."

Lord Saltire said, "My cob is the best I ever had; and a sweet-tempered creature. Our dear boy broke it for me at Ravenshoe."

"Dear Charles," said Lady Ascot. "What a splendid rider he was! Dear boy! He got Ascot to write him a certificate about that sort of thing before he went away. Ah, dear!"

"I never thought," said Lord Saltire, quietly, "that I ever should have cared half as much for anybody as I do for that lad. Do you remember, Mainwaring," he continued, speaking still lower, while they all sat hushed, "the first night I ever saw him, when he marked for you and me at billiards,"at Ranford? I don't know why, but I loved the boy from the first moment I saw him. Both there and ever afterwards, he reminded me so strongly of Barkham. He had just the same gentle, winning way with him that Barkham had. Barkham was a little taller, though, I fancy," he went on, looking straight at Lady Ascot, and taking snuff. "Don't you think so, Maria?"

No one spoke for a moment.

Lord Barkham had been Lord Saltire's only son. He had been killed in a duel at nineteen, as I have mentioned before.

Lord Saltire very rarely spoke of him, and, when he did, generally in a cynical manner. But General Mainwaring and Lady Ascot knew that that poor boy's memory was as fresh in the true old heart after forty years, as it was on the morning when he came out from his dressing-room and met them carrying the corpse upstairs.

"He was a good fellow," said Lord Hainault, alluding to Charles. "He was a very good fellow."

"This great disappointment which I have had about him," said Lord Saltire, in his old dry tone, "is a just judgment on me for doing a goodnatured and virtuous action many years ago. When his poor father Densil was in prison, I went to see him, and reconciled him with his family. Poor Densil was so grateful for this act of folly on my part that I grew personally attached to him; and hence all this misery. Disinterested actions are great mistakes, Maria, depend upon it."

When the ladies were gone upstairs, William found Lord Saltire beside him. He talked to him a little time, and then finished by saying—

You

"You are modest and gentlemanly, and the love you bear for your fosterbrother is very pleasing to me indeed. I am going to put it to the test. must come and see me to-morrow morning. I have a great deal to say to you." "About him, my lord? Have you heard of him?"

"Not a word. I fear he has gone to America or Australia. He told Lord Ascot he should do so."

"I'll hunt him to the world's end, my lord," said true William. "And Cuthbert shall pray for me the while. I fear you are right. But we shall find him soon."

When they went up into the drawingroom, Mary was sitting on a sofa by herself. She looked up at William, and he went and sat down by her. They were quite away from the rest, together.

"Dear William," said Mary, looking frankly at him, and laying her hand on his.

"I am so glad," said William, "to

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 To be continued.

end.

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. was the depth of personal friendship long untested. Cut off in middle life, and when he was making way, his No. 25.-VOL. V.

Nor

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 in hers.

But why should she so remember word or service of his? Why did his fellowcitizens manifest so deep an interest in those he left behind? Apart from his gifts of leal-heartedness, tenderness, and humour, Mr. Macdonald was a man of genius-a poet, an antiquarian, the devoutest lover of beast and bird, of snowdrop and lucken-gowan, sun setting on Bothwell bank, broad placid harvestmoon, shining down on Clydesdale barley-fields. He was in his own degree one of the poets who have, since Burns's time, made nearly every district of Scotland vocal. Just as Tannahill has made Gleniffer hills greener by his songs, as Thom of Inverury has lent a new interest to the banks of the Dee, as Scott Riddell has added a note to the Border Minstrelsy, Mr. Macdonald has taken poetic possession of the country around Glasgow. Neither for him nor for any of his compeers can the title of great poet be claimed, but they are not the less delightful on that account. These men are local poets; and, if you know and love the localities, you accept thankfully the songs with which they have associated them. If the scenery of a shire is gentle and tame, it seems fitting that the poet of the shire should possess a genius in keeping with it. And in its degree, a mountain-daisy is quite as beautiful as a garden-rose or a flaming rod of hollyhock; a green lane, fragrant with hawthorn hedges, charming as any Alpine valley. Great scenes demand great poems-simple scenes, simple poems. Coleridge's Hymn in the Vale of Chamouni is a noble performance, but it would never do to be uttered in a green Lanarkshire glen where sheep are feeding, and where you may search the horizon in vain for an elevation of five hundred feet. It is not a very bold assertion, that Mr. Macdonald could not have approached Coleridge's Hymn, even had he been placed in Chamouni; but he has really done poetic justice to the scenery that surrounded him-made the ivies on Crookston Castle more sombre with his verse,

and yet more splendid the westward-running Clyde in which the sun is setting.

He was one of those too-of whom we Scotchmen are peculiarly proud, coneeiting ourselves, as we are accustomed, that they do more abound among us than elsewhere-who, born in humble circumstances, and with no aid from college, and but little from school, do actually achieve some positive literary result, and a certain recognition of the same. He was born in one of the eastern districts of Glasgow, lived for some time in the Island of Mull, in the house of a relative there; for, as his name imports, he was a true Celt, and drew from his sires song, melancholy, and superstition. The superstition he never could completely shake off. He could laugh at a ghost story, he could deck it out with grotesque or humorous exaggerations; but the central terror glared upon him through all disguises, and, hearing or relating, his blood was running chill the while. Returning to his native city, he was entered an apprentice in a public manufactory, and here it was -fresh from ruined castle, mist-folding on the Morven hills, tales told by mountain shepherd or scaly fisherman. of corpse lights glimmering on the sea; and with English literature before him, wherein to range and take delight in precious shreds of leisure; and with everything, past highland experience, and present dim environment, beginning to be overspread by the "purple light of love"-that Mr. Macdonald became a poet. And, considering the whole matter now, it may be said, that his circumstances were more favourable for the development of the poetic spirit, than if he had been born in a Cumberland vale, with no harsher task than image-hunting urged upon him by pecuniary considerations. Glasgow, at the period we speak of, could boast of her poets. Dugald Moore was writing, publishing, and being quizzed by his companions. Motherwell, the author of "Jeanie Morrison," was the editor of the Courier, and fighting manfully in its columns against Reform. Alexander Rodger, who disgusted Sir Walter by

the publication of a wicked and witty welcome singular in its likeness and contrasts to the Magician's own-on the occasion of the visit of his Gracious Majesty George IV. to Edinburgh, was filling the newspapers of the West with satirical verses, and getting himself into grief thereby. Nay, more, this last "Makar" either then, or at a later period, held a post in the manufactory in which Mr. Macdonald was apprenticed. Nor was the eye without education, or memory without associations to feed upon.

Before the door of this manufactory lay Glasgow Green, with the tree. yet green under which Prince Charles stood when he reviewed his shoeless highland host before marching to Falkirk. Near the window, and to be seen by the boy every time he lifted his head, flowed the Clyde, bringing recollections of the red ruins of Bothwell Castle, where the Douglasses dwelt, and the ivy-muffled walls of Blantyre Priory, where the monks prayed, and carrying imagination with it as it flowed seaward to Dunbarton Castle, with its legends old as Ossian, and recalling as it sank into ocean the night when Bruce, from his lair in Arran, watched the beacon broadening on the Carrick shore. And from the same windows, looking across the stream, he could see the long straggling burgh of Rutherglen, with the church-tower, where the bargain was struck with Monteith for the betrayal of Wallace, standing eminent above the trees. And, when we know that the girl who was afterwards to become his wife was growing up there, known and loved at the time, we can fancy how often his eyes dwelt on the little town, with church-tower and chimney fretting the sky-line. And when Macdonald rambled and he always did rambleinevitably deeper impulses would come to him. Northward from Glasgow some few miles, at Rob Royston, where Wallace was betrayed, lived Walter Watson, whose songs have been sung by many who never heard his name. Seven miles southward of the city lay Paisley in its smoke, and beyond that, Gleniffer Braes, "laverocks fanning the snaw-white

clouds" above them, the torrent flashing in the rocky gorge on the hillside, the ruins of Stanley Tower standing on the plain below-scarce a change since Tannahill walked there on summer evenings. South-east stretched the sterile district of the Mearns, where Christopher North lived when a boy, and where Pollock herded COWS. And beyond, in a green crescent embracing the sea, a whole Ayrshire fiery and full of Burns; into which, dying, the poet's whole nature sank, making passionate soil and stone; with his daisy blooming in every furrow, every stream as it ran seaward mourning for Highland Mary, and, when night fell, in every tavern in the county, the blithest lads in Christendie sitting over their cups and flouting the horned moon hanging in the window-pane. And then, to complete a poetic education, there was Glasgow herself-noble river and dark groves of masts, begirt by miles of stony streets; grand cathedral, filled once with popish shrines and rolling incense, on one side of the ravine, and on the other, the statue of John Knox, impeaching it with outstretched arm, that clasps a Bible.

And ever as the darkness came, the district north-east and south of the city was filled with shifting glare and gloom of furnace fires; instead of night and its privacy, the keen splendour of towering flame brought to the inhabitants of the eastern streets a fluctuating scarlet day, piercing nook and cranny more searchingly than any sunlight. Mr. Macdonald set himself sedulously to poetic work; and, whatever may be the value of his wares, it may be said that excellent material lay on every side.

uses.

To him all these things had their We picture him a young fellow of excellent literary digestion, capable of extracting nutriment from the toughest materials; assiduously making acquaintance with English literature in his evenings; gradually taking possession of the British essayists, poets, and historians. As this time, too, he cherished republican feelings, and had his own speculations concerning the regeneration of the whole human race; and these feelings he re