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bours joined them; for when the | Fergus, half distracted, hurried along damsels told the alarm of Shilas, the valley, hill, moorland, woods, and men of several districts hastened at through every bhalli, or hamlet. Shithe earliest dawn to explore a wide las was gone-gone for ever, as the extent of country in search of Maoin, lord of Badenoch affirmed. She had the defender of the feeble, the friend been observed some miles off, riding of all, the warrior descended from a || gaily with a young horseman, near long line of heroes, the beloved and the bhalli of a strath leading to the venerated chief, venerated though sea-beach; and Fergus must repair poorer than crowds of vassals en-to the tournament at Stirling, in riched by forays, in which he disobedience to a mandate from the king dained to join.
of Scotia. Fergus obeyed. He A son of the usurper of the landsbore away the palm of chivalry; but of her grandsire was the nearest all his thoughts were with Shilas. kinsman of Shilas. He had sought Indignant at her departure without her in marriage; but she turned one adieu, he had called up" all away with horror and affright" from his pride of manhood" to banish her the fierce spoiler of the south.” image from his soul; but“ still her The persevering wooer came instant- tears of beauty," and the pressure ly on learning the decease of her fa- of her white hands” in chafing his ther, and claimed an exclusive right benumbed fingers, his head raised as her guardian. She involuntarily on her shoulder when he fell unable directed her imploring eyes to Fer- to bespeak her pity for a wandering gus; but while he considered how to stranger, her kind attentions to save interfere with due decorum, a mes his life; these, and many other fond senger apprised him that the lord of recollections, mingled in the gayest Badenoch, attended by a train of scenes, and his mind was absent and fifty men, was at hand inquiring for insensible to the dazzling splendours his son. Rumour conveyed to the or varied pleasures of the court. lord of Badenoch the tales of won- | All his angry feelings melted into der that circulated concerning the tender sorrow, when an old friend early snow-storm; and he set out for of her father informed him, that the the north, full of anxiety for the safe. heir of chieftainry had torn her by ty of his only hope, Fergus Ceimu- || violence from her home, again offernaich. His family had an anciented to her the hallowed rites of the and never extinguished feud with church, and with horrible imprecathe clan of Maoin. Ruagarach had tions denounced an alternative the likewise been the rivalof the haughty most vilifying if she rejected his chief, and wedded the maid of the | hand. The conflict in her soul was south his valour rescued from licen- bitter as the struggle of death. She tious pursuit. With crafty caution wished to be laid in the dust with the lord of Badenoch dissembled his Maoin her father, the defender of resentments, and led his pompous | the helpless, but death came not to train to lay the son of his foe in her release. One day only was al" the bed of long repose.” Next | lowed her to choose between evermorning every tongue inquired for lasting dishonour' and the lofty staShilas, but no eye had seen her. tion of a chieftainess. No friend
was near, no aid to be expected. || vince himself how far he wronged Fergus stood unmoved by her áp- the blameless lady. He might dispealing eyes, and his father was the appear, while the lord of Badenoch hereditary foe of her house. With took his son to hunt for three days shaken nerves, pale cheeks, and se in the moors. Before-three days cret horror, she was borne to the al- passed away, the usurper of the tar, and was but “ two moons” the rights of her nearest kindred, the pining spouse of him she never could cruel spoiler that forced her from a love nor esteem, when a knight of peaceful home, and dragged her a great age and his two sons claimed || victim to the sacred altar-he, in futhe chieftainry. The knight proved | rious mood, rushed to her presence to be the brother in birth next to || with a bloody sword. Ruagarach. The infidels of Spain. “Here,” he said, “ here is a tosunk before the flame of his valour, ken, warm from the heart of Fergus and the honours of knighthood || Ceimunaich; warm from his heart, brightened his name. The parties the paramour sent it to a faithless vere ordered to Stirling, to plead dame. Take it, Shilas, to perfume their own cause, and to bring evidence of their rights. All Scotia Shilas calmly gazed on the red edge gathered to hear the decision, and of death, then buried the point in the gloomy spouse took Shilas, " to her stainless breast. have her under the blight of his con- “I die innocent,” she said, raising tracted brow." Fergus stood near her mild eyes to heaven. “The hothe king. Melancholy hung on eve- ly Virgin sees I am unspotted in soul ry feature, " his grace of manhood | and in person; but the offspring of wasted by despair." Shilas avoided heroes, the offspring of Ruagarach the burning glances he turned upon and Maoin, will not live suspected her face; but in evil hour he bribed and miserable." her handmaidens to admit him to | Fergus cleared her fair fame, by her hall, while the spouse slept off defying to combat any, or all, that the fumes of Bordeaux wine. In dared to asperse an angel ascended frenzy the youth declared his love to the saints above. No accuser apShilas commanded him to silence, peared. The sons of her grand-unand retired from his view; but a poi. | cle proclaimed challenges to mainsoned dart was struck to her pure tain the unblemished honour of Shibosom. Her dejected countenance | las. No lips moved against her, and and anxious avoidance of Fergus all deplored her untimely fate. Her alarmed the jealous spouse. He grave was yet green when Fergus warned the lord of Badenoch, as he pined and died. valued the life of his son, to remove The king of Scotia restored the him from Stirling. The proud chief-chieftainry to the brother and race tain treated this warning with scorn of Ruagarach. and derision: yet he told the suspi
B. Ġ. cious spouse it might be easy to con- ||
THE CONFESSIONS OF MY UNCLE.
No. IV. AH! my old aunt Micklethwaite, || which once my urchin fingers turned thy well-known pothooks and hangers into what I termed windows, by cutput me in mind of many a day long ting out every other blue diamond. gone by! Methinks I see thee sailing The tables were en suite. Nor must into the room like a gallant seventy- I forget the large mezzotintos by four, with not only its broad pendant Fry, which were suspended over flying, but decked with myriads of the apartment; nor the looking-glasssubaltern streamers. Thy paduasoy es, which, hanging up aloft, bent forgown, in which hollyhocks large as ward to meet your sight, accommolife bloomed and flourished; that dating themselves to your whole shape sapphire petticoat, glowing through as you approached nearer and neara short but flounced apron, worked er. The frames of these were of with thine own hands; thy waist small mahogany, edged with gold. The by degrees and delicately less! Ichimney-piece, filled with shepherd. even smell the thousand odours emit-esses, mandarins, and Gorgons dire, ted by thy ample bouquet, steeped would even now afford a delectable in an elegant receiver, which held treat to the modern connoisseur in sufficient water to refresh the gaudy old china; while the collection of collection. I hear the rustling of tea-pots rivalled that of our late most thy standing-on-end silk, which noise gracious queen. Under the mantelmy father used, not unaptly, to com- shelf were portraits of Garrick in pare to that made by the servants every character which he had per. taking up the hall floor-cloth. I be- formed, taken from the life. And hold thee, and all the furniture of then her conversational power, her thyself and house is vividly before “ Well I declare," and "I never in me. I know not why, but I feel a | my life saw so beautiful a- ;" then, wish that all could come over again: || how often did she “ clap her eyes” the walls covered with a red flock | upon such and such a thing: but no paper; the fire-place decorated with hoidenish manners did she ever exDutch tiles, depicting the several his- | hibit before me. Her mouth was tories of holy writ; these encircling as || practised to a simper ever since she it were a brass grate, bright as gold; || lost her teeth; and, to do her justice, the fender, composed of a straight she laughed with those who laughed, piece of the same material, would and cried the rest of the sentip over on the least affront offered | tence is obvious. of placing the foot upon its edge, up- I have often thought, that if the setting and bringing down in the lovers of scandal would report the overthrow the sympathetic tongs, po-worthy as well as the worthless part ker, and shovel, regardless of the of the human character, they would carved hooks that would keep them confer an essential service on manin their places. And then the chairs, kind; for then, finding that the world massy and heavy enough for Gog | gave us credit for some good intenand Magog, and covered on common tions, we might endeavour to make days with blue and white check, these bear some comparison in our
favour. At present, however, the might make her fortune by marriage. world is so little inclined to give us She was therefore taught to clang the smallest credit for good inten-on an old spinette, and could play, tions, that we become careless of our just well enough to lull her papa to reputation; and while we think we sleep, “ Down in the woods and have not acted in quite so vile a shady groves,” “Fly, Chloe, fly," and manner as Mr. A. or Mrs. B. we hold Marshal Saxe's minuet. She neither, ourselves among the most immacu attended to the house affairs, which Jate of our species. But perhaps, af- she left to servants, her poor mother ter all, this scandal may arise from dying when she was very young; nor the high value which we have for did she employ her tine in any one virtue, which makes us jealous of thing that was useful, being firmly giving our friends credit for a parti- convinced, that she was destined to cle of it; and this it is that would be run away with by some lordling. make us level every person to our Her reading went no further than own standard of mediocrity. the “ Amours of Jenny and Jemmy
My aunt Micklethwaite was one Jessamy," and“The Fortunate Counof those beings who, apparently en try-Maid,” to which she had been pargaged in a routine of frivolity, give ticularly attached ever since her papa the world no opportunity of forming had taken a country villy near the any other than one opinion of their Shepherd and Shepherdess Fields, pursuits. She was born somewhere Hoxton. Her religion was borrowabout the year 1700; although she ed from Mrs. Rowe's Letters from the herself had totally forgotten the year, Dead to the Living. These were and thought it was about 1725. She her favourite works, in the perusal was the only daughter of a dashing of which, however, she was often intradesman, for there were such things terrupted on receiving her last new in those days; one of those who can négligé, or some other decorative only ape their betters in the improper article. Her delight one day on parts of their characters, and, like contemplating a new saque of the all imitators, exceed their originals; richest plum-colour brocade was inand though the father of my aunt | terrupted by the murmuring of voices was, to my father's great grief, a very under her window, and she reached low fellow, of little or no education, the bottom of the stairs in a violent yet having a few hundreds left him passion that no one had answered by an old aunt, he launched into all her bell, just in time to behold her the extravagances of horse-racing, papa a corpse, the consequence of cock-fighting, and such intellectual | an apopletic seizure. amusements; dressed in ruffles, wore Miss Micklethwaite having fainted a gold-laced hat, and attended for away three successive times, began orders in a sword and bagwig. The to think that, as she had done every maccaroni-grocer, as he was called, || thing that was required of her to do associating with black-leg lords and on such an occasion, she might beprodigal sons of the nobility, and gin to look out for comfort or amusegetting some insight into their man-ment to divert her melancholy. One ner of living, determined to bring up would imagine that the change of his daughter, Miss Molly, so that she dress, and attention to the other de
corums of life on the occasion of hoped Mrs. Lutestring would slope death, were wisely ordained by Pro- it off according to the last French vidence to rob us of some share of inanner. our regrets; and nothing is so likely | The first shock was now over, but to rouse us from grief as the neces- with regard to her future prospects sary arrangements on so mournful she was quite ignorant. Tears did an occasion. I have known many a at first come into her eyes when she young and beautiful widow raise up | thought of her dear papa; but when her streaming eyes, which have yet she turned them to the pier-glass, been bent only on the corpse of her and saw how well her mourning behusband, on beholding the entrance | came her, her grief grew less vioof the dress-maker, and sigh while | lent: but then the idea that her new she asked if all her hair must be hid peach-blossom négligé could not be under her cap; nay, I once knew a worn for another year revived her mother, who, writing for the habili- chagrin. The visits of the mantuaments of mourning for a darling son, maker, a designation now quite exand whose sincerity of grief could ploded, continued to wear away never be doubted, beg that the bon- those hours which solitude prolong. net might be made in the last fashion.eu, until the awful day arrived, when Miss Molly was herself quite indif- sal volatile and eau-de-luce were ferent how her mourning was to be showered on her by her friends, and made:"yet,” she added, “one must at- she was, after the ceremony, led to tend a little to decency;" and though, || 'her aunt's in the most decent and as her dear papa was dead, she had | woe-begone manner possible. no one she cared about now, yet she (To be continued.)
THE CANARY-BIRD OF J. J. ROUSSEAU.
By MADAME DE MONTOLIEU. In the year 1800 business called, mity, his errors and his misfortunes. me to Paris. I visited all the mo- I was wholly absorbed in these recolnuments of the capital. Next to lections, when I accidentally perceivthe Louvre, the magnificent edifice | ed, in a little hollow formed by the at that time called the Pantheon par- | bend of the arm, a small box tied with ticularly engaged my attention. In a ribbon. At that moment my comthe subterraneous church I was panions and the guide who shewed shewn among other tombs that which us the building rejoined me; for I covered the remains of Rousseau. had tarried longer than they by the The arm protruding from a cleft, and tomb of Rousseau. Pointing to the holding a torch, was in my eyes the box, I asked the latter what it did most sublime emblem of immortality, || there. He seemed surprised, and and the most expressive representa- || assured me, that he knew not either tion of his ardent mind. I recalled when or by what means it had come to memory by turns his most beau- || thither; and indeed I should not tiful ideas and his most remarkable have discovered it had I not been so sophisms, his greatness and his infir." very particular in my examination of