solemn prayer, which ought to ascend oftener than I fear it does to the eternal throne. I shall not insist now on its fitness as a means of preparation for the life which is to come. I shall take it merely as embodying a secular maxim or apothegm-which, I may remark, is the case with the sublimest of the scriptural precepts, for all that revelation teaches us to believe will contribute to eternal happiness, does, if practised here, secure our temporal peace; and I say, broadly and advisedly, after the experience of many years, that, in the middle station of life, a man, be his accomplishments and talents what they may, has a far better chance of .happiness than if he were greatly elevated, or unduly depressed. Who would choose, if he could help it, to be an emperor or a king? Read Gibbon, and you will see what became of the infatuated creatures who, in the latter days of the Roman Empire, bought the dignity, generally to perish in the course of a year or so by the swords of a hireling band, purchased by some new and equally asinine competitor. Who envies Charles Dix, or Louis Philippe? or who can envy the present Napoleon? Can it be pleasant, when you step into your carriage bound for the opera, to reflect that the chances are two to one that, when you descend, some infernal machine will explode at your feet? To know that you are marked down for assassination by a club of dare-devils in masks, who deliberately throw dice for the honour of taking you off, effecting, after the lot is cast, assurances on your life for the purpose of providing for the outcast children of the murderer? Should you like to have the responsibility of wars, undertaken for the maintenance or aggrandisement of your own dynasty, in the course of which many thousands of souls, altogether unfitted for eternity, must pass to judgment, naming you as the man who, for selfish earthly motives, had prematurely sent them to their long account without even the chance of repentance? I am no Covenanter, nor addicted to rash application of scriptural terms; but this I must needs say, that if Tophet is made hot for any one, it will be for the individual whose personal ambition has disturbed the

peace of Europe; and who, if evil spirits submit to an earthly incarnation, is perfect Moloch, with a Mammonistical fondness for the funds.

To be a duke is not, in my humble opinion, much more desirable. Dukes are subjected to all the inconveniences of high dignity, without that fine sensation of being irresponsible which is the sole privilege of majesty. In the olden time, very few dukes died peaceably in their beds. They either perished in foreign battle, or in civil conflict, or mounted the scaffold to lay their heads upon the block, as the penalty of their rebellion. There are no rebellions now; and a considerable time has elapsed since any of ducal rank occupied apartments in the Tower. But for all that, a duke can hardly be said to have more freedom than a prisoner on parole. Wherever he goes he is a marked man, at whom the many may stare with impunity. His every word and deed are sure to be quoted and commented on with undue severity. If he has large possessions and a fair share of patronage, he must lay his account with being pestered from morning to night by all manner of applications from the greedy, the indigent, and the unscrupulous. If he is munificent, he is accused of being extravagant. If he is economical, he is branded as penurious. Archbishop Tillotson, in a sermon preached before the Merry Monarch-doubtless with Buckingham, Rochester, Sedley, and the rest of that respectable crew among the audience-took occasion to illustrate the advantages of a creditable example from men of lofty station. Those," said the excellent prelate, "who are in a low and private condition, can only shine to a few, but they that are advanced a great height above others, may, like the heavenly bodies, dispense a general light and influence, and scatter happiness and blessings among all that are below them." To my humble thinking, it must be very cold among the stars.

But it would be impertinent, or, even worse, tedious, to pursue this topic further, more especially as I have got some sort of a story to tell; and it is against all æsthetical rule to philosophise in the preface. I merely wish to state my conviction,

that a man placed in a middle station of life, and content to remain there, not only is likely to secure a larger share of temporal happiness and enjoyment, but is enabled to take a more just and unbiassed view of society than can be obtained by those who move at either extremity of the social scale. The peasant cannot comprehend the ways of the prince, nor the prince those of the peasant. The middle-man, who stands between the two, can form a right estimate of both.

I was born about the time when the star of the great Napoleon was beginning to decline. My father, a subaltern in the British army, whose hereditary portion was very small, fell at the Battle of the Pyrenees. He had been imprudent enough to contract a marriage with a young lady of good connections, but quite as poor as himself, before joining his regiment; and I believe that the letter which was intended to convey to him the news of my birth, was on its way to Spain, when he, along with many other gallant soldiers, was struck down by the terrible fire of the French artillery. My mother, whose constitution was originally delicate, and who was deeply attached to my father, never rallied from the blow. She drooped and died within six months after she had assumed the widow's garb, leaving me, a helpless infant, to the care of an old woman, who had been her own nurse, and who, like many of her class in Scotland, concentrated the whole of her strong affections upon her charge. I know not why it should be so, but it is a well-known fact that nurses are often much more passionately fond of the children committed to their rearing, than of their own kith and kin. This was the case with dear old Eppie Osett, who still lives in venerable age, the keeper of my little lodge; and faithfully and truly did she fulfil the trust imposed on her by my dying mother. Eppie was the sole link between me and my parents, and often in my boyhood have I heard her tell, with affectionate prolixity, the story of my mother's death.

"She was but poorly, the sweet lamb," would Eppie say, "before the

Captain gaed awa' to thae weary wars; and weel I mind that when they parted she grat sair, and made as if she wadna let him gang, for I think she had something on her heart that telled her she wad never see him mair. A' night long I heard her sobbin' in her room, and prayin' for the brave lad that had gane to fight his kintra's battles-weary fa' thae French that hae spilt sae muckle o' the auld Scottish blude! But neist morning she was quiet-like, and gaed about the house as before; only she was wan as ony lily, and I could see by the quivering of her lip that her thoughts were far beyont the doorstane. For twa or three days she hardly spoke even to me that had been her nurse; and I durstna venture to speak to her, forbye on ordinary matters of house-skep; for I felt that if I had named his name, I wad hae broken out into woman's weakness: ; and sma' was the comfort I could gie her, puir innocent lamb, in the hour of her heavy tribulation. Sae I tried to look as canty as I could, and put a' things out o' the way that might distress her wi' thoughts o' the past. But I was an auld fule for my pains; for I might hae kenned that there is naething sae dear to a woman in absence as the image of him she loves. She, puir thing, had a bit picture o' your father that she wore round her neck on a chain; and when she gaed to her lonesome bed, she kissed it, and put it under her pillow, and ilka night her prayersfor I often heard her pray, sleeping as I did in a wee closet aff her room ---were less for hersel' than for your father. And nae wonder, for she was a sinless burd! The angels, when they cam' to tak' her awa', could hardly hae been whiter than she was; and I dinna believe that the breath was out o' her body before she heard the psalms o' heaven!

Weel; it was nae lang time afore ye were born, Maister Norman, that your father gaed awa'; and to say the truth, dear bairn as ye are to me now, I wadna hae cared if ye never had had an existence. For your bonny sweet mither was no like Leah, wha had the first o' the patriarch Jacob, and, will ye, nill ye, brought him a bairn ilka year, and

whiles wad hae been glad o' twins. She was mair like douce Rachel, wha dee'd in child-bed, and was Jacob's first love; for whom he mourned, and set up a pillar upon her grave in the way to Ephrath, which is Bethlehem, that is the pillar of Rachel's grave unto this day, as is revealed unto us by the holy Scriptures. Yemade a narrow escape, Maister Norman, of being christened Benoni, though your father didna ken, when the ball shattered his breist, that his puir wife ayont the sea had given birth to a buirdly man-bairn.

"Weel do I mind the day when the awsome news was brought hame to us. There was nae letter, for the ither offishers doubtless had muckle mair to do than to write-they were, ye ken, fighting for their ain lives in a far-awa' land; but the auld minister-that was worthy Mr Daniel Simpson, wha afore that had the parish of Kircuddy-he got a newspaper; and in it, wae's me! was your father's name as having died on the field o' battle. It wasna a field either, for the battle, as I heard tell, was focht among the mountains, like unto that terrible battle in Mount Gilboa, where Saul, king o' Israel, was slain. But, field or mountain, it was a' ane. There was nae doubt o' what had happened. The handsome light-hearted lad that we a' lo'ed sae weel, wi' an e'e like a gosshawk's, and a laugh that rang through the house as cheery as the sang o' the mavis, was now but a bluidy corp, laid in unco mools, without a stane to mark his head !

"Worthy Mr Simpson had a gude heart o' his ain, though he was nae great dab at the preaching, being somewhat lang-winded, and ower fond o' displaying that carnal knowledge, which is but sour sowens to them that hunger for the savoury meat o' doctrine. But he never was backward in the hour o' affliction, and that's mair than can be said for some that sit in the high places o' the synagogue. Sae he just came across to break the waefu' tidings to your puir mither. But nae sooner did she see him enter the room wi' the sheet in his hand, and the marks o' sorrow on his face-for the auld man could hardly refrain himsel'-than her heart

VOL. LXXXVII.—NO. DXXXI,

divined what he had to tell her; she uttered a great cry, O, my Henry!' and fell down on the floor like ane that had been struck wi' the lichtning. It was lang afore we could bring her round, and langer afore she could speak; for her mind seemed to be taken frae her, and she could do naething but sit and tremble, puir thing, as if she had seen a spirit pass before her face, like that which appeared unto Eliphaz the Temanite, making all his bones to shake. Death is a terrible thing at ony time, and sad to witness, whether it be that of a strong man smitten down by sudden agony, or of a frail bit lassie creepin' awa' to her Creator after a lang and weary sickness; but 0, when it comes to us unseen, like a peal of thunder in a simmer skywhen we hear tell, without warning and preparation, that them we lo'ed best on earth, and maybe better than we should lo'e ony earthly creature, have been ta'en awa' frac us for ever; and when we ken that we sall never again hear them speak or see them smile, nae wonder if the horror of darkness falls upon us as it did on that day when the Lord withheld the licht from the dwallins o' the Egyptians.

"The first thing that seemed to break the dwam o' her bewilderment, was my bringing you, a wee innocent babe, and laying you on her knee. Then the instinct o' the mither came back: she caught you up in her arms, and burst into a flood o' tears. Í could say naething to her then, for my ain heart was ower full, and I weel kenned that sorrow maun hae its course; say I just put worthy Mr Simpson to the door, for he could do her nae gude, and I drew down the window-blinds and darkened the room, and syne sat doun mysel' upon a creepie, and wrapped the plaid around my head, and prayed that the Comforter might come unto her. Doubtless she had comfort after a season, but it wasna o' the common sort. Her comfort was the assurance that she wadna be left to tarry here lang in her bereavement, but that before the primroses o' spring blossomed on the braes, she wad be wi' him she had lost, in that blessed place where there is no more death, neither

B

sorrow nor crying, nor any more pain. That was what she said to me, no aboon sax days after the tidings cam', and I could see weel eneuch that she wasna lang for this warld. It's my belief that she had but ae thing heavy on her mind, and that was the thocht o' leaving you behind her, a puir unfriended orphan. For though she had faith in the kindness o' the Lord, and dwalt upon His promise that He wad be a father to the fatherless, she was yet a mither; and your wee hands, as they closed round her fingers, were the cords that held her to the earth. If ever a bairn was prayed for, it was you. She held you in her bosom till her e'en closed in death, and the last words she uttered were words o' blessing on her babe. And then the licht gaed out, and there was hush and stillness in the chamber, but for the bit cry ye gave as I stooped to tak you from her."

My father had no near relatives. It was indeed believed that a first cousin of his was settled in London, and engaged in some prosperous line of trade; but he had left Scotland at an early period of life, and maintained no communication with any of his former friends. My mother, however, had a brother much older than herself, a medical practitioner, in Edinburgh, upon whom devolved the duties of my guardianship. Dr Alexander Buchanan was a bachelor of peculiar habits, regarding whom I shall presently have occasion to speak meantime it is only necessary to say, that he cheerfully accepted a responsibility, which in Scotland is regarded almost in the light of a sacred duty-that the little money which remained after payment of my parent's simple debts was invested for my benefit-and that Eppie Osett, who, failing every other resource, would have carried me on her back through the world begging from door to door, received the assurance that my education would be properly cared for, and shelter given me under my uncle's roof, so soon as it was considered advisable that I should be brought to Edinburgh. Until then it was arranged that I should remain with my nurse at the house of her brother, who rented a small farm in Selkirkshire; as Dr

Buchanan very naturally expressed a disinclination to being " fashed with bairns," whereof, as he pertinently remarked, he might, if so minded, have provided himself with a stock of his own.

Accordingly, in the bright days of spring, we removed from the little town wherein I was born, to the farm of the Birkenshaws, cultivated by honest Jamie Osett, the first place that I can remember, and probably the last that shall fade from my memory. It was a little steading, situated in one of those glens which are so common in that romantic pastoral district, by the side of a clear mountain stream, which, descending from the ridges that separate the valleys of the Tweed and Yarrow, flows in a long succession of rapid and pool, until it loses itself in that beautiful sheet of water, from which emerges the last-named river so famous in Scottish song. Round the house were a few old trees, originally planted there to screen it from the blasts which in winter swept fiercely down the glen; but beyond these, the face of the country was bare and unwooded, save that on the scaurs, on the very edge of the loose shingle, or curiously inserted among the rocks, some thorns and birches, of great age but stunted growth, still remained to show that, in days long gone by, the title "forest," as applied to the district, had not been given in derision. There it was that I first became conscious of the beauty of external nature; where I plucked the gowan, and purple thyme, and yellow crow-foot from the mountain-sward; and with my comrades, Davie and May Osett, plaited caps from the rushes that grew in the bonny meadow by Meggat-side, where the lapwings had their nests. Even now that pastoral region has for me a strong attraction, and inspires me with an intense sensation of delight, albeit it will bear no comparison with the grander beauty of the Highlands, or the richness of the more cultivated vales. Solitary it is not, though the farmsteadings and shepherds' houses lie far apart; for life is teeming everywhere, in air and water, on the hill-side, and in the glen. In spring

the call of the cuckoo, that " fairy voice," comes to you from the old thorn-tree on the crag; the hills are resonant with the bleating of a thousand lambs; the merry ephemeral swarm hover over the stream, or flit in clouds across the pool; and the speckled trout, watchful of his prey, leaps after them, or chases the shoal of glistening minnows among the stones of the rapid shallows. In summer, life becomes even more strongly developed, and in more gorgeous hues. The butterflies, white, and speckled, and red, and blue, dance over the meadows, blending their glorious colours with those of the tall flowers on which they light, until you cannot well distinguish the blossom from the butterfly, or the insect from the petal of its repose. There, too, the strong dragon-flies, like shafts of topaz and beryl, shoot themselves from the long grass by the river-side; the water-pyet, scared from his stone, dips down under the ripple; the pike, basking among the reeds on the margin of the loch, rushes out at your approach; and the wild-duck, at the head of her brood yet unable to take the wing, steers away, with maternal instinct, to the depths. See the cattle in the ford, how they luxuriate in the coolness of the stream, standing bellydeep in the fresh water, and lowing to each other with a note of supreme satisfaction, such as assuredly no Malvern patient, swathed in wet bandages, ever emitted for the comfort of his friend who was being "packed" in the next apartment! And when autumn comes, there is the merry song of the reaper; the crowing of the muircock on the hill; the call of the partridge from the field or the fern the happy festivities of harvest-home, from one farm-steading to another; and that general intercourse, assistance, and friendly communion, which always marks the fall of the year as the most affectionate and kindly period. In winter only can the glens of the south of Scotland be justly termed solitary; for solitary indeed they are when the snowwreaths are lying thick and heavy, obliterating every landmark, filling up the water-courses, and rendering the mountain-tracts impassable even

to the daring shepherd. But let the storm rage ever so wildly without, within the house all is comfort and warmth; industry not suspended, but applied to a hundred matters of domestic convenience; and household provision made for the wants of the coming year. So the day went by swiftly, and when evening came, and all were gathered round the fire, many a tale and ballad, not then collected, but familiar through tradition to the peasantry, was recited for our wonder and delight. Eppie Osett, in respect of minstrel learning, would have put Ritson or Leyden to shame. She could not only repeat such fine historical ballads as "The Battle of Otterburn" and "Sir Patrick Spens," but she knew by heart most of the beautiful romantic ditties current on the Border, and she gave them forth with an animation and even pathos that produced the strongest effect upon her simple audience. Honest Jamie Osett did not deal in the pathetic, nor indeed did he possess any large store of rhyme, though on occasion he could rattle off the humorous ditty of "Our Gudeman" with much gusto and comic power. He was better versed in the prose legends, the tales of imagination and fairy lore, which, brought into this country in all probability by the old Norse settlers, continued for centuries to be the literary heritage of the people. One story in particular, the details of which I cannot now recall, used to entrance us all. It related to the adventures of a beautiful princess, who, for some fault or other of her own, or being under the influence of a malignant spell, was separated from her lover, and doomed never to know rest or happiness until she should reach an enchanted castle reared in a land where the sun never shone, and the wind never blew, far, far away beyond the uttermost limits of the earth. How she reached it, I cannot exactly say; but I think it was through the aid of a certain "Red Bull o' Norroway," who bore her on his back through forests filled with giants and ogres, over water-floods where the kelpies lay, past caverns where witches were stirring their caldrons, and down to the shore of a desolate and