66 best pleaseth thee," answered Lord Mourtray; only pray thee forget that ill-boding and fantastic name, and know him henceforward but for simple Giles Forester, the ancient and faithful servant of our house and the sire of thy good and peerless Gillian; which kindred may, in some sort, expound his first kindness to thyself, as well as many other passages that have doubtless not a little perplexed thee in times past. And, by my fay, both to sire and daughter owe we large thanks and liberal guerdon, no less than to the varlet Gauchet, who hath ever stood on thy behalf after his own cunning and covert fashion; and to worthy Reeve Bernard, who well nigh took his death in thy service." "Neither shall goodly means be lacking towards such recompence," said the noble prelate with them; "whereof will proof speedily be seen in certain coffers now lying in Charlewode treasure-vaults, well stored with the profits of the maiden's land and the gold that fell to her by heritage; a dower which, for reasons it boots not now to rehearse, I forbore to reveal to any, but kept safely and secretly through these late troublous times, now joyfully to be rendered up to the Lord Mourtray and his bride on the spousal day that shall end together Prior Gilbert's wardship and the Damosel's Tale." IRISH SONG. SWEET MARY, ACUSHLA MA-CHREE. * BY MRS. CRAWFORD. HERE'S to Mary, sweet Mary, acushly ma-chree, Sweet Mary, acushla ma-chree ! O Mary, sweet Mary! wherever I roam I picture her still in her wild mountain home, Oh! I'll never forget thee, though parted for years, Sweet Mary, acushla ma-chree. This song was written to Whittaker's beautiful Irish air, "Molly Malone," which has all that sweetness and impassioned burst of feeling that so peculiarly distinguish that highly-gifted composer. LETTERS FROM THE COUNTRY. MY DEAR EDITH, No. II. BY A LADY. Dumbarton Grange, Feb. 2, 18—. I suppose you meant to experimentalize on my patience by your last letter. It was not well-judged of you; a little exercise is stimulating, but such a journey as you provided for my poor patience, was enough to wear her out. To think of your not having answered a single one of my inquiries about my friends in -shire-or even told whether you survived the eagerness of their questionings about me!-or mentioned whether there are any traces of the wounds it was supposed I had undesignedly inflicted!-of course, my benevolent nature has certain inquietudes on that subject. If my patience had not been very vigorous, it would quite have fainted away, before I came to the end of your very short billet. As it was, I should not have wished anything that had a reasonable claim on it, to have preferred that claim just then. Just picture to yourself, you Edith, me receiving, in return for a letter, that would have made the wrath of your excellent great-uncle explode through his spectacles, on the indiscreet demoiselle who had sent him one so exquisitely brimful-not a square straw's-breadth of paper lost the contents of a tiny notelet, diffused, in diagonal lines, so far apart, that they fairly lost sight of each other; and therefore it is not wonderful that they were not very connected over an imposing letter-sheet, the predominant aspect of which, on its best filled side, being white, it may be presumed to have blushed to whiteness, at its own vacuity! Very plausible, after this, to express your gratitude for the delightful sketches I send! Very beguiling, no doubt, to thank me for my charming "young newspaper." If I were not unequalled generosity of soul, I should just requite you with the fac-simile of your own; but as that is the case, I am actually beginning a letter which promises to rival its predecessors; but, as a friend, I advise you to beware. You may not believe in my power, but I assure you I can write short, shabby epistles as well as other people. If you give me just cause, I should not wonder if I prove it to you. of Is it for your deservings that I have not much to tell you? Our Christmas parties are nearly over, and between the winter horizon, which they illuminate, and the fresh beauty of spring, there is a long interregnum, to be brightened by friendly visits, and long morning calls, and other small palliatives addressed to our natural want of social intercourse. No doubt, other things will keep occurring. And when spring comes, what long delicious rambles up our glens-and delightful parties to see our abbey in the vale-and pleasant freedom in excursions to the fair hilly region, in the heart of which, though, alas! out of sight of its mountain protectors-our Dumbarton lies-what "Exaltations in the far light Where some cottage only is,- come with it. The spring rouses me from a sort of half-awake lethargy, even as it does the flowers and the singing birds. All lovely thoughts, all lovely scenes seem most fair in spring--and the loveliest-the looks and tones of affection give the soul most power of upward flight-lift it highest into the region of the beautiful, then. I do not think it was always so with me. I do not recollect that in childhood, spring came to me with this softening, brightening influence. Perhaps the pulses beat too high in "The strong leaping of the stag-like heart awake, Which the pale was low for keeping in the road it ought to take," for the change of the sunny spring to be felt, in those days. But for years I have looked forward to the spring time, as the season of re-awakened delight, as certainly I expect of the evening, that then thought will be clear, and fancy bright, and hope buoyant. I know through the day, that thoughts and fancies which escaped me then, will gleam on me unevoked, at night-that fair images will brighten through the twilight hour-not the less when for its soft shade, comes the glory of the evening lamp. I believe that the springs of a fresh glow of pleasure will be touched by spring. Along with her sights and sounds come some, only caught by my eye and ear. Only mine, for other eyes and ears that might wot of them, are very much too busy with work of the world, to know ought of the summons that takes me away into the regions of the past. Well, there is no reason that I should not enjoy the pleasure, because I have it all to myself-though it certainly is not one of those to be most exquisitely enjoyed alone. And each of my later springs has brought me some new hope-something to spread its leaves in the future. Will it be so with this coming spring? What fresh hope does she hold for me? Or will she darken over some that are now budding? I cannot tell─none can tell-only I know, that what she brings, will be just the best for me; and may I feel as well as believe, that it is so. Then in summer, do not we propose to visit the land of moun tains, the land, where the monarch of mountains holds his court? O, shall I see Mont Blanc? see the rosiness of heaven make a fair world about him at sunrise? look down into the vale of Chamouni? Will not the eye then be as the inlet to a new sense? And yet I have lived among the hills, and loved themand look down as from a height, upon the Southrons, who have never trod on Pen Man Mawr, and Ben Lomond-wonder what a mountain is like—and long for one as "a sight," beyond any that London can show them. But perhaps, the lofty places of Wales and "my ain countree," are no more like those real Swiss mountains, than (only that the one is unquestionably an ascending comparison), than the popular idea of a queen, with her head in a crown, a sceptre in one hand, and a globe on the other, is like our Lady Victoria, who rides about in a pony-carriage, with no insignia of her power, except her sweet looks and smiles, which, for all true hearts, are her best. But if we go to Switzerland, Edith, will it not be with a delightful party; and will not we have adventures? I anticipate them with at least, as much delight as the mountains, only I hope they will not include falling down precipices; I should prefer losing the view they command altogether, to even a remote chance of obtaining it while quivering downwards towards it, head first, in mid-air. I advise you to lay up a little claim for yourself now, to obtaining tales from us travellers then; if you don't, won't you have cause to regret it? and all the more for having no glimpse how strong that is. How pleasantly I have been dreaming to myself, and, as in other dreams, thinking I was pursuing my business--writing to you. Now, "what shall I tell to thee?" Dear Edith, truth is a jewel-pray treasure its rays, for I fancy they will outshine those of any other gem of the mind, in these succeeding narrations. I told you, doubtless, something would occur, le voilà, that is, you shall hear it directly-an appropriate way of learning what is for the ear. Imagine me, last Tuesday morning, in a state of the greatest perplexity, pondering a difficulty, on which I knew, even the shades of evening would cast no light, when I was cheered by an approaching step, the owner of which I hoped, would counsel me, as I divined, to speak with Gaelic periphrasis-that it appertained to the beloved son of my papa. "Oh, Raimond, I am glad to see you!" "Very glad to be seen, then, dear Amy-always delighted to find my sweet sister appreciate the happiness of being so." "That is not all, just now, Raimond, I want a little advice.” "I wonder you do not, as usual, feel a well-placed reliance on your own exquisite judgment." "But there are some points, you know, on which a lady's judgment is not infallible." May, 1845.-VOL. XLIII. NO. CLXIX. E "Indeed! what can they be? I thought a lady's judgment went beyond the farthest point of sight in every thing, from the placing of an ornament to the placing of a ministry." "Then for once you were mistaken, Raimond. The ministry! as if ladies thought they had anything to do with it, except, I suppose, helping to pay its taxes. "They help, I suppose, Amy, by persuading their unfortunate papas and brothers to make them exclusive presents of the taxable article; French silks, for example." "No, indeed, they help by being very economical about themselves, and sending plenty of taxable flour to their poor neighbours." 66 Very economical! quite a new way, certainly, of a lady helping any one. I thought, dear Amy, ladies always spent either wice as much as they need in buying cheap bargains, or never considered anything good unless it cost an enormous price." "Now don't misrepresent yourself; you know more about the ladies than that. Don't you recollect the other day quite warming up as you told me you had found out, by accident, how Ima Severton had given up having a new shawl that she might give the money to a poor family in distress? I never saw you look so handsome before." "I never recollect looking handsome in my life; and as to the good Ima Severton does, there would be quite food for the memory in one tenth part of it.” "I wish you would do me a little good, Raimond. Do be serious for a moment, dear; I want to know, and I really cannot decide, which of these three. "These three? what are they, Amy? Three offers from your last trio of admirers? I will give you my advice directly, to be sure; but had you not better tell me who they are? though I fancy the most blue-eyed . . . "I wish you had not interrupted me, Raimond. Evidently at your last place of education they did not teach manners. It is not half so important as that." "Indeed! I fear it won't be the right size for my judgment. Pray make haste and tell me; I am growing quite nervous." 66 Of course, you look so; then, as you have so good taste, will you tell me which dress will be the most becoming for the concert to-morrow, the light pearl-coloured silk trimmed with black lace, or the black satin, or the primrose muslin ?" "Certainly it ought to be noted as a fact now existing in natural history, that mountains still produce mice-a very fine breed, I should think." "But you know, Raimond, gentlemen can judge of the general effect so much better than ladies. Which?" |