511 The years went by, and the pilot dwelt

“It is no rocky prow!” On yonder outinost isle ;

But the pilot smiled: "Nay, tremble not; By land or sea he never dealt

Three kegs of oats and a sunken boat 'A human being guile :

Are the ground we stand on now."
But at times came an ugly gleam in his eye,
When storms by the reef were brewed,

A light of the past that long had slept
And then they thought he was mad thereby,

Gleamed out at Memory's beck, And then few men would dare go nigh

And the peer knew the man that had lain and Where Terry Wigan stood.


On his knees on the vessel's deck. The pilgts were roused one moonlight night, Then Terry: “All that was dear to me When the breeze was landward borne ;

You crushed without remorse ; An English yacht beat into sight

Now shall the retribution be With mainsail and foresail torn :

Then the English noble bowed the knee From her foremast top the red flag spoke Before the pilot Norse.

Her need without a word; And a small boat tacked where the breakers But Terry leant on the shaft of an oar, broke,

Erect as in the past; It fought through the storm-waves stroke by His eye had a gleam of boundless power, stroke,

His hair streamed on the blast. And the pilot stood aboard.

“You sailed at your ease in your big corvette,

My little skiff I steered ; He seemed so safe, the grizzled man,

I toiled for my own till my strength was let, And he gripped the tiller so

You took their bread, and without regret
That the yacht lunged forth, and searvard ran, My bitter weeping jeered.

With the skiff behind in tow.
A peer with his child and his dame demure
Came aft, as pale as a ghost:

“Your rich lady is fair and grand, “I'll make you rich as you now are poor,

Her hand is silky fine :
If you bear us safe from the waves and sure ?" Coarse and hard was my wife's hand,
But the pilot left his post.

And yet that hand was mine.
Your child has blue eyes and golden hair,

Like a little child o' God :
He paled at the mouth, and a smile he found

My lass didn't look much anywhere; Like a smile of power long sought.

Gód better it, she was pale and spare,
Over they bore, and high aground

Like the child of a common clod.
Stood the Englishman's splendid yacht.
“Take to the boats! In the breakers wild
The yacht will splintered be.

“Well, these were my kingdom on the earth, My wake will guide to a haven mild :

They were all the good I knew; My lord and my lady and the little child I thought them a treasure of mighty worth, Shall come in the skiff with me."

But they weren't much to you.

But now is the time of reckoning nigh, The wild fire flamed where the skiff flew along That'll well make up for the years gone by

And you with an hour shall cope Toward land with its cargo rare ;

That have bowed my back and dimmed my eye, Aft stood the pilot, tall and strong,

And ruined all my hope.”
His eye had an eerie glare.
Leeward he looked at the Gaesling's top,
And windward at Hesnaes cliff ;

He raised the child in his powerful grip,
Then he left the helm, and he sang out, “Stop!” His arm round the lady coiled :
Then he heaved up an oar, and he let it drop, “Stand back, my lord! A single step
And he thrust it through the skiff.

Will cost you wife and child ?”
Then up the Briton leapt in scorn,

But was far too weak to fight;
In swept the sea, the foam dashed by,
On the wreck there raged a fight;

His breath was hot and his eyes were worn, But the mother lifted her daughter high,

And his hair, as they saw by the light of the Her terror turned her white.


Turned grey that single night. “Anna, my child! my child !” cried she :

Then quivered the grizzled man;
He gripped the sheet, set the helm to lee,

But Terry's brow has lost its frown,
And the boat was ’most like a bird to see,

Freely his breast expands; As through surf and foam it ran.

He sets the child full gently down,

And tenderly kisses its hands. It struck, they sank; but beyond the flood He breathes as freed from a prison's pains, All quiet was the sea :

His voice is calm and still : A ridge lay hid, and there they stood

Terry Wigan his better self regains ; In water to the knee.

Till now the blood was dammed in my veins, “ The ground gives way !” the peer cried out, - Revenge was in my will.

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“ The long, long years of a prison's woes When the yacht was bearing off Hesnaes Had wrought my heart amiss :

Since then I have been as a pine that grows They hoisted the Norse ensign;
Looking into a wild abyss.

A little to the west there's a foam-hid ground, But that is past : our debt is scored,

Where they fired a salvo fine. And I am not to blame.

A tear in Terry's eye then shone, I gave

what I could — you took my hoard, As out from the cliff he gazed : If you think you're wronged, appeal to the “Much have I lost, but much have I won; Lord

It was best, maybe, that it should be done, Who made me what I am.”

And so may God be praised !”

It was thus that I saw him a single time, All were at daybreak saved. The yacht

He lay with his fish by the pier : Safe to the haven came :

Though his hair was flecked with a foamy Though the tale of the night they whispered

rime, not,

Gay was his voice and clear. Yet wide went Terry's fame.

With a quip and a jest the girls he cheered, His dreams like storm-clouds swept away, With the village lads made fun; Nor left the smallest speck,

He waved his sou'wester, and off he sheered, And the head arose erect and gay

Then up with his stay-sail and home he steered, That was bowed yon day he wept as he lay Away in the setting sun. On his knees on the vessel's deck.

I saw a grave by Faroe Church
The peer was come, and his lady as well, On a plot of grass and moss:
And many more were come

It wasn't tended, and sank with a lurch;
To bid good-bye, and their God-speeds tell, But it had its blackened cross.
As they stood in his little home.

There “Thaerie Wiighen” stood in white
They thanked him that saved from the stormy With day and month and year :

He lay where the sun and the storm could Of reef and breaker wild:

light, But Terry said, with a kind caress,

And that's why the grass was so coarse and “Nay, the one that saved in the worst distress tight, Was none but this little child."

With a bluebell there and here.


- Scottish people by English eyes, is generally a man who has are usually credited with two qualities, neither raised himself to wealth. Long exercise of of wbich, as it seems to me, they possess. self-denial has made it a second nature. He They are inordinately fond of money, and they cannot now throw away those habits without are possessed of infinite caution. “A canny which he could not have risen. A little conScot” has come to be a proverbial expression. sideration, too, will show that the Scot is just As to their alleged avarice, it is to be noted as little entitled to whatever praise may belong that Scotland, in comparison with England, is to a cautious people. He is by nature excesa poor country, and therefore, of necessity, its sively passionate and impulsive; the current inhabitants will set a higher value on a definite of his thoughts is much more swayed by sentisum of money. Then, within the present cen- ment than reason. Of course, there are other tury Scotland has become much richer than elements in Scottish character which go to formerly; possibilities of gain have been change this. They conceal it, but they do not opened up undreamt of before. Into this the affect it. We do not call Vesuvius cold be. Scot has thrown himself with all his intense cause its sides are covered with hard lava. eagerness. He has been quick to see and The caution of the Scot is exactly similar to grasp the enormous power of wealth, and in that of the man who has charge of a powder some cases the passion for accumulation has magazine. If he is to save his life he must superseded all else — the devotion to money adopt precautions such as are unknown to other has become almost sublime in its intensity. men. So the depth of Scotch feeling is hid But these are exceptional cases. Scotchmen, with a superficial reserve. There is what in accordance with their extreme character, 'seems to the Englishman an absolutely unnecoften attain to a height of reckless expenditure essary reticence

- an adoption, as it were, of to which there is, happily, nothing in English measures to guard against events not likely to character to be compared. But the national | happen; but the reason is, that a word or an history proves that, without a single hesitation, action which the more tolerant Englishman they have again and again sacrificed material would hardly notice will often be enough to welfare to political and religious ideas, and move to the greatest rage a smouldering fire, this to an extent to which English history pre and to lead to an outbreak absolutely disprosents no parallel. The wealthy Scot, as seen ) portioned to its cause. St. James's Magazine

Fifth Series, Volume XLIII.


No. 2045.- September 1, 1883.


From Beginning,




I. THE LIFE OF Don JOHN OF AUSTRIA, Edinburgh Review,

Macmillan's Magazine,

Temple Bar,
IV. THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. Part II.,. Longman's Magazine,

Saturday Review,

Queen, .


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Time's strong hand fell helpless down;
Fate stood dazed without her frown;
Sly suspicion, cold surprise,
Faded 'neath the happy eyes ;
And the voice I love was speaking,
And the smile I love was making
Sunshine in the golden weather,
Where we two stood close together ;
For you reigned in royal right,
In the dream I dreamt to-night.

WHERE Lancaster's last stake was set
Against the proud Plantagenet;
Where the red rose and the white,
Flaunted o'er the furious fight;
Where, in mock of brotherhood
Kindred ranked 'gainst kindred stood,
Once to meet, nor part again,
Raged the war on Towton Plain.
There the squadrons charged and wheeled,
There the rival war-cries pealed
There, amid the roar and rattle
Of the long and desperate battle,
English all, the maddened foes,
Saw the long day dawn and close,
Ere King Henry's cause was sped,
’Neath the roses, white and red.

And I woke, and woke to see
A cold world, bare and blank to me,
A world whose stare and sneer scarce hidden,
Told me that as fruit forbidden,
Love and trust must ever pine
In so sad a clasp as mine;
All too faint and fragile grown,
For gifts that youth holds all its own;
Ah, best to wake, forgetting quite,
The sweet dream I dreamt to-night.

All The Year Round

Full four hundred varying years,
Have passed with change of smiles and tears,
Since names of York and Lancaster,
Bade men's pulses leap and stir.
Calm beneath the northern skies,
All the plain of Towton lies,
Where the lark sings, blithe and clear,
In the morning of the year,
Where the merry beck is flowing ;
And the joyous winds are blowing,
Echoes from the moor and hill;
Very peaceful, very still,
Lies the field of battle, spread
With clustering roses, white and red.

IN SUMMER FIELDS. YE flowers in your wonderful silence,

Ye birds with your wonderful sound, The love of my God are declaring;

For ye are the language he found.

Ye smile to the eye of my spirit,

Ye sing to the ear of my soul; Ye waken soft echoes of anthems

Which over God's Paradise roll.

Ye bloom as ye bloomed once in Eden,

Make holy and sacred the sod; Ye sing as ye sang when in rapture

Man counted you angels of God.

Yorkshire airs are hard and cold,
Keen the blasts from Yorkshire wold,
Nor biting frost, nor drifting snow,
Kill the roses' roots below;
Drive the plough, and sow the soil,
Spend all arts of strength and toil.
Sure as is the call of spring,
Wake the roses, glistening
Rosy red and purely white,
As they gleamed on Towton fight.
Bear the storied plants away-
Slow and sure will they decay;
There and there alone they blow,
By brave blood, shed long ago,
In some mysterious fashion fed,
Towton Roses, white and red !

All the Year Round.

By you

common things of the desert 'God's love has this mi acle wrought : Ye fill me with exquisite gladness,

With worship which silences thought. Sunday Magazine,


Sister, awake! close not your eyes !

The day its light discloses :
And the bright morning doth arise

Out of her bed of roses.


See! the clear sun, the world's bright eye,

In at our window peeping! Lo, how he blusheth to espy

Us idle wenches sleeping.

In the dream I dreamt to-night
Love came, armed with magic might;
Fret and fever, doubt and fear,
Foes that haunt his kingdom here,
Misconception, vain regretting,
Bootless longing, cold forgetting,
The dark shades of change and death,
Ever hovering on his path,
Vanished, from or sound or sight,
In the dream I dreamt to-night.

Therefore awake! make haste, I say,

And let us without staying,
All in our gowns of green so gay,
Into the park a-maying.

Bateson's Madrigals.

From The Edinburgh Review. course towards the ancient walls of StirTHE LIFE OF DON JOHN OF AUSTRIA.*


It would be hard to name in broad The publication of these volumes is a Scotland a spot more dear to our history, fitting tribute to the memory of a highly our poetry, and our national life. Here, accomplished Scottish gentleman, and, in then, the young laird of Keir, the inheritor our opinion, it places the late Sir William of an ample fortune, accumulated the Stirling Maxwell in the first rank of the treasures of literature and art which lie bistorians and writers of this country. esteemed above all his other possessions. Such as it is, this memorial is the result in the cedarn chambers and galleries of of his own industry and genius. He his library, ornamented with innumerable brought to it the unremitting persever. mottoes and devices, in which he took a ance of five-and-twenty years. In accuracy fanciful delight, Keir had collected a vast and abundance of research, in purity of and curious assemblage of books, em. style, in brilliancy of descriptive power, bracing a variety of subjects, but in one and in a just, though somewhat sarcastic branch unrivalled — in the literature and estimate of human character and actions, annals of Spain. From an early age Mr. it seems to us to be inferior to no work Stirling had been struck, like his friend which has issued from the press for many Richard Ford, by that passionate attracyears; and we are convinced that it will tion to Spain which we have witnessed confer upon its author no mean amount of more than once in minds of no common posthumous fame. Our admiration of so order. He had visited the country, he finished a performance is only dashed by had mastered the language.

The ro. our deep regret that he who had already mance, the heroism, the daring of the given the final touches to these pages did Spanish character; the stern dignity temnot survive to witness their reception by pered by a biting wit; the subtle combinathe world.

tions of policy, and even the ruthless exeThe history of the book itself partakes cution of those schemes by men who were in some degree of the mystery and ro. for a moment all but the masters of the mance that attach to the illustrious sub. world, exercised an irresistible fascination ject of this biography. William Stirling over him. He devoted his literary life, of Keir, the son of Archibald Stirling and and it was a life of no common labor, to a Elizabeth, daughter of Sir John Maxwell, complete mastery of the Spanish reigns was born in 1818. He graduated at Trin- of the sixteenth century. His first publi. ity College, Cambridge, in 1839; sat in cation, indeed, was the “ Annals of the Parliament as member for Perthshire Artists of Spain,” published in 1848. from 1952 to 1868; and succeeded to the This was followed, in 1852, by the “Clois. baronetcy of Maxwell of Pollock in 1866. ter life of Charles V.,” which threw a new The house of Keir, hard by the old cathe- light and a fresh interest on the closing dral of Dunblane and the banks of Allan scenes of Yuste. In 1870, the magnifi. Water, commands from a gentle eminence cent volume entitled " The Chief Victo. that fertile vale through which the streams ries of Charles V.,” with the designs of of the Forth and the Teith roll on their Martin Heemskerck, and a multitude of

choice and curious illustrations, was pre* Don John of Austria; or, Passages from the History of the Sixteenth Century, 1547-1578. Illus sented to the members of the Philobiblon trated with plates and numerous wood engravings. By Society, and reviewed at the time in this the late Sir William STIRLING MAXWELL, Baronet, journal. Two years later, the still rarer

London: 1883. + Sir William Stirling Maxwell, K.T., was lord and more costly volume of the “Por. rector of Edinburgh University 1872-4; chancellor of traiture of the Sixteenth Century" Glasgow University 1874-8; he was a trustee of the

presented to

some of Sir W. Stirling British Museum. Though defeated at the election for the County of Perth in 1868, for which he had previ- Maxwell's friends and to some public ously sat for sixteen years, he was re-elected in 1874, libraries; but of this work only fifty copies

were printed. “The Procession of Pope for these dates to Mr. Joseph Foster's useful record of the Members of Parliament for Scotland, published in Clement VII. and the Emperor Charles

V.," from the designs of Hogenborg, with

K.T. Two volumes folio.


and retained the seat till his death. We are indebted


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