about, in which the kernels of olives were wrapped up, together with figs, all kinds of pulse, oaken leaves, with acorns, and cakes composed of the meal of wheat and barley, heaped up in a pyramidical form,-allusive to the sunbeams that ripened the grain, as well as to the fire in which they were finally consumed.

ARABIAN CUSTOM.-Burckhardt, in his Nubian Travels, informs us, that it is a general custom in the caravans of the Arabs passing through Nubia, as well as in the Arabian desarts, never to drink, except when the whole caravan halts for a few minutes for that purpose the time of doing this is, in the slave-caravans, about nine o'clock in the morning, and twice during the afternoon-march, namely, about four and six o'clock. In the forenoon, also, every one drinks at the halting of the caravan, and again after the meal; and the same rule is observed in the evening. To drink while others do not, exposes a man to be considered effeminate, and to the opprobrious saying, that his mouth is tied to that of the

water-skin.

Anecdotiana.

A PHILOSOPHER'S PHILOSOPHY.-Solon's philosophy did not seem to be of a very austere cast, when he said that women, wine, and the Muses constituted the pleasures of human life.

THE FATE OF DOMENICHINO'S COмMUNION OF ST. JEROME.-Connected with this splendid painting is related the following anecdote. The picture was painted by Domenichino for the church of San Girolamo della Carita at Rome. At that time the faction between the different schools of painting ran so high at Rome, that the followers of Domenichino and Guido absolutely stabbed and poisoned each other; and the popular prejudice being in favour of the latter, the Communion was torn down from its place, and flung into a receptacle for lumber. Some time afterwards, the superiors of the convent wishing to substitute a new altarpiece, commissioned Nicolo Poussin to execute it, and sent him Domenichino's rejected picture as old canvass to paint upon. No sooner had the generous Poussin cast his eyes on it, than he was struck, as well he might be, with astonishment and admiration. He immediately carried it into the church, and

there lectured in public on its beauties, until he made the stupid monks ashamed of their blind rejection of such a master-piece, and boldly gave it that character it has ever since retained, of being the second best picture in the world.

KING'S COCK-CROWER-Amongst the ancient customs of this country which have long sunk into disuse, was a very absurd one, and which, however ridiculous, was continued so late as the reign of George I. During the season of Lent, an officer, denominated the "king's cock-crower," crowed the hour every night within the precincts of the palace, instead of proclaiming it in the ordinary manner. On the first AshWednesday after the accession of the House of Hanover, as the Prince of Wales, after wards George II., was sitting down to supper, this officer suddenly entered the apartment, and proclaimed in a sound resembling "the cock's shrill clarion," that it was past ten o'clock. Taken by surprise, and very imperfectly acquainted with the English language, the prince mistook the tremulation of the assumed crow as some mockery intended to insult him, and instantly rose to resent the affront; nor was it without the utmost difficulty that the interpreter could make him understand the nature of the custom, and assure him that a compliment was intended, according to the court etiquette of the times. From that period, however, the custom has been discontinued which called back St. Peter to repentof warning the court by the symbol been left to the voice of reason and conance; and princes and courtiers have science alone.

FACINO CANE.-A man in middling circumstances complained to the celebrated military chief, Facino Cane, that he had been stripped of a cloak by one of his soldiers. Facino, seeing that he had a good coat on, asked him if he was dressed in the same way when his cloak was taken. The man answered that he was. "Then get about your business,' said Facino: "the man who robbed you is none of my soldiers; none of them would have left so good a coat upon your back."

Illustrated Article.

TALES OF AN IDLER.

PHEMIE MACKENZIE; OR, THE CARVED
OAK CHAIR.

A Legend of my Ancestress.
For the Olio.

My mother's dwelling, in the mercantile town of is situated in one of its busiest streets, and having been deprived of many symbols of ancient architecture, (particularly the Cross of the Templar Knights, shewing how wide once had been the rule and large the property of those heroes of Jerusalem, by this type of their valorous devotion marking every dwelling which contributed to their rents or rights), by the profane hands of some abettor of the Improvement Act," and perfectly modernized into a plain brick building, by the tasteful endeavours of its aujour d'hui landlord, has nothing remarkable in its out of door appearance, but within the spoiler has not been, and its favourite apartments still present an VOL. VIII.

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air of gothic splendour, from the many relics of the old style of furniture which adorn them. I love this dwelling, not merely because my mother has, for many years, shed the sweet quiet of her gentle heart over it, till it almost appears to my imagination, when far away and clouded with the world's troubles, like that sanctuary on the waters to which the lonely dove returned, when she had "sought rest and found it not." In that house one was born and died,-- a fair blossom, too beautiful for earth, on whose life I had founded my happiness; but the destroyer came, and my heart's brightest feelings perished in the early grave of the loved and lost-for ever!

One evening, when the silver kettle and antique china were removed, I had nothing to divert me but the wild rush of the wind without, and the contemplation of the mementos of antiquity within. My mother's attentions being deeply engrossed by a superb piece of embroidered damask, on which the witchcraft of the needle had wrought, in coloured silk and silver, the white rose and the heathflower. This she was

210

forming into a cushion for a curiously carved and high-backed oak arm-chair, the possession of which was most irreligiously coveted by an antiquarian friend of ours, and as strenuously defended by my mother.

66 Pray," ," said I, "what can you see so very interesting in that evidently decaying piece of furniture, to adorn it with such splendid hues ?"

"Child," answered my mother, looking up from her employment, has your heart not yet learned to look beyond the surface? There is a tale of woe and daring attached to this old oak chair a legend of those times when men shed their blood like water, fighting for what each thought the good cause."

It is needless to say, that, inspired alike by curiosity, and the hope of passing away the long and weary winter night free from the tedium of ennui, I persuaded my kind mother to repeat to me her chronicle of the times of my ancestress, the original possessor of the carved oak chair.

"Father! the times are wild: we are far from that field which is to decide the fate of many do not despair-our Malcolm will return; and think how well that gallant brow will look when the long-lost coronal of our race shines above it, and the bonnie earl shall come with a monarch's favour once more to his father's hall," said the fair-haired Phemie, as she kissed her father's reverend brow. Her race had long been devoted, with many of the proudest of the land, to the fortunes of the "Exile," and her brave brother was now out in the first of his fields to support the cause of "bonnie Prince Charlie." Her father, confined by severe ill-health, could only be there in heart; and was deeply anxious to learn the issue of that last decisive battle on the fatal field of Culloden. The rapid approach of a steed-its sudden stop-and the quick parley of its rider with the nearest domestic, (who, anxious as his master, was ever on the watch for the coming of the tidings,) made the old laird start to his feet, as the enthusiastic Phemie rushed to the outer portal, trusting to meet her brother's embrace, There was a slight pause-to the father an age of apprehensive torture,-when a wild and thrilling shriek was heard, and almost at the same time Phemie lay senseless at his feet.

"It is enough," said he, " raising her to his heart, "I now know that all

is lost!"-and for a moment the agony of his crushed hopes bowed his grey head, as the weeping domestics received from his failing grasp the fainting form of his daughter; then, suddenly looking round as if for the messenger of evil news, his eye rested on a stranger, who, wrapped in a tartan plaid, leant against the door, which he appeared to have hastily closed on his entrance into the apartment. He seemed almost sinking with fatigue, yet deeply interested in the scene before him.

"Oh, Scotland! how many broken hearts are thine!--how many hearths like this made desolate! and canPardon me, sir! you say true indeed→ all is lost! I am a fugitive from the saddest field that Scottish blood ever stained-my wearied steed died at your gate-that maiden's words spoke to whom your hearts are plighted. I ask but an hour's shelter and the simplest of your fare-and I am again a wanderer on the earth!"

As the stranger spoke thus, he sunk upon an oaken chair near him, and drew the veiling tartan over breast and brow-but it could not hinder his low sobs of agony from reaching the ears of his auditors. Phemie, who had risen from her death-trance, and clung weeping to her father, first broke the silence,

"Oh, father, think that our own Malcolm may have thus to plead, and cast not the fugitive from our gates!"

66

Stranger, here you are safe-none will pursue into this rocky wilderness. Rest, then, thou whose heart seems broken as my own;" and the old laird kindly sought to press the hand of his guest-it was yielded to him, and its cola damp touch showed how worn the frame must be from necessity and want.

Phemie's eyes met her father's glance, and she hastily left the room, returning quickly with abundant provision, which the ancient domestics helped her to arrange, and heaping up fresh fuel, retired. During this time, the stranger appeared to have partly recovered himself, but still enfolded in his plaid, he traced unconsciously with his sheathless and broken dirk some characters on the arm of the chair in which he reposed; suddenly starting as his kind host addressed him, he, with a silent obeisance, availed himself of the plentiful repast, though still assiduously, with plumed cap and tartan, shielding himself from the gaze of his entertainers; much as the laird wished to learn, if the stranger knew aught of the

fate of his son, yet hospitality demanded he should not embitter the much wanted meal by a recurrence, to circumstances that agonized his guest so deeply-none spoke, for Phemie could but weep, and the father mused on the fall of his own proud hopes and the fate of his only son; suddenly, in the stillness, the tramp of horses was faintly heard, and the stranger sprang wildly into the centre of the apartment.

"Hark! my pursuers!--they come! -they come!-then I am lost

"C Nay, not so, stranger, the father of Malcolm Mackenzie will give his life for one who has fought beside him; here thou shalt be safe, wert thou Charles Stuart himself."

"I am Charles Stuart!" said the wanderer, casting aside his cap and tartan, his long fair curls falling brightly round his face, whose noble features had, amidst their mortal paleness, a sweet and touching dignity. "I am that outcast, and what can I expect from the father of Malcolm Mackenzie but his eternal malison. Curse me, old man, thy son's blood is yet upon my garments, he died to aid my escape-nay, sink not thus to earth, speak, and let me in thy words, hear the curses of all whose hearts I have broken in lost, unhappy Scotland.”

At these words Euphemia rose up; her bright eyes without tears, and her sweet girlish face beaming with the proud expression of her devoted heart. She rapidly crossed the room, and sliding back a part of the carved wainscotting, exclaimed

"Fly, fly, my Prince, the sister of Malcolm will, like him, protect thee to the last;" then suddenly forced Charles (whose arm she had seized) into the aperture, and closing the spring, he found himself in utter darkness; then with the quickness of devoted and determined courage, she wrapped herself in the tartan he had thrown aside, and placing the plumed cap above her own fair curls, she turned to her astonished and agonized father, exclaiming

"To the death, father! to the death for Charles Stuart !"

At the moment, when the crash of the yielding gates, the quick tread of many feet, and the hoarse voices and the clatter of steel announced the entrance of the dreaded pursuers, the door of the apartment was burst open, and the room half filled with soldiers.

enveloped in the well-known tartan of Charles, there was a cry of "To horse! -to horse!" a rush of departing steeds, and the devoted Phemie was borne away a prisoner ere her father (whose broken exclamations were disregarded) could comprehend his heroic daughter's purpose. The sudden disclosure of his son's death, and the added agony for his daughter's fate, literally broke his aged heart, and Charles forced his way through the shattered pannel into the room only to hear his death groan; with this fatal proof of the horrors of civil war weighing upon his soul, the Stuart fled far away into the darkness of the night, with the vain thought of yielding himself up, and saving the fair

and fearless Phemie.

But time rolled away: the wanderer found a home in a foreign land; and Phemie, the early discovery of whose sex called forth the admiration of her gallant captors for such a proof of conrageous devotion, was speedily returned in safety to her now disconsolate home. Time, it is said, does wonders, and the proverb must be true-for when Phemie Mackenzie cast aside her long worn mourning weeds, it was to don the bridal garment to meet at the altar the young warrior, to whom, as "Bonnie Prince Charlie," she had yielded herself prisoner. Her descendants have been many, but it has ever been their pride to preserve the oaken chair on which Charles Stuart traced with his dirk the initials of his name and the cross, alike the symbol of his faith and the type of his fate

"For ever crost and crost."
E. S. CRAVEN.

KING GATHOL'S CHAIR. By Sir W. Scott.

Dead were this spirit, by my fay,
To pass unsaid, unsung the day

When the Fourth William went
To claim the crown his fathers wore;
And, 'mid huzza and cannons' roar,
Approached Westminster's shafted door
By Parliament Street, never before
With human heads so pent.
Without, a nation's plaudits rung-
Within, the gates were open flung-
And horsemen cheer'd and chargers neigh'd,
When lighted down that cavalcade.
As up the nave the pageant went,
A thousand eager necks were bent

From galleries perched on high;
The choristers their anthem sang,
And in reverberation rang

Each aisle and archway nigh.
Boots not to tell, in order due,
With broider'd suit and buckled shoe,
Ermines, and silks, and satins new,

Their trains upheld by page: