THE MAJOR.-It is. THE LAIRD.-And whatna' like is this said speerit story that ye hae been yammering aboot for the past aught days? THE DOCTOR-A very pleasing sketch, parts of which I am to submit to-night to the consideration of our revered master. THE MAJOR.-Silence! Read: "Tis near midnight; a few moments more and another year is gone. The year now grown old must soon expire, and at its dying moment give birth to another. Pause yet awhile-one second more. Hark! the clock in yonder distant turret knells forth the hour! That sound conveys to the listener at once the mournful dirge of a departed year and intimates the presence of the old one's youthful son. Even now, as the hour is being made known to man, the recording angels are hurrying to the throne of their Lord and Master, bearing to his presence the thoughts, the words, and deeds of mortals. The records of the past year are finished, and their work accomplished. But again they must go forth; and again sum up the coming year. Among the numerous host is one fair spirit who feels reluctant to yield up her account of man. "And wherefore is it, Aristindeen, that you thus stand back?' "O, merciful Lord,' cried Aristindeen, falling on her knee before the throne, her hands clasped beseechingly, I pray you change my lot; my record is blotted with my tears, I cannot write the sins of man.' THE MAJOR.-Hold! That will never do. Such familiar colloquialities can not be permitted. What Byron attempted in his Cain and failed in, and what even Milton but partially succeeded in doing, it is not for us, poor pigmies, to essay. THE LAIRD.-Ye're just richt, auld chap, sic like familiarities are a thocht irreverent. THE DOCTOR.-But how can you possibly understand the story? THE MAJOR.-Give us the substance in your own words. THE DOCTOR.-Aristendeen, then, laments her lot, and prays to have one spirit committed to her special care; the boon is granted, and she wings her way to our world to commence her new course of duty. I think, however, the objectionable passages, so far, are ended, and I will again resume the manuscript: "The recording angels, with fresh, unsullied tablets, wing their way to earth again to renew their melancholy tasks; but Aristindeen joyfully descends. "The old church clock is now on the last stroke of twelve; now chime forth the merry bells, a joyous peal; below, the church is filled with many people, and now the choristers chant a hymn in welcome to the new born year: this too, is finished; but entering the church comes forward a strange group. Behold a man bearing in his arms a child, beside him walks the mother, they are followed by their friends. They approach the altar, requesting that their child may be baptized; the good clergyman accedes to their request, the ceremony is performed, the child is taken in his arms, he, crossing it, calls it by the name of Mary. The child suddenly starts, then claps her hands and laughs, then holds forth her arms as if to be embraced by one of them unseen." hour of virtuous exertion, to shed through THE MAJOR.-Yet, from the pulpit, the most eminent divines, both Anglican and Presbyterian, have enunciated their belief in its reality. "It was late in the autumn, now many years I think it is Finlayson who has a passage ago, that I was requested by my lawyer, who somewhat to this effect: From what hap- resided in London, to meet him at the 'Harrow,' pened on the mount of transfiguration we a country inn in Kent, unknown to most travelmay infer, not only that the separated spi- lers in that county, for it was situated in an outrits of good men live and act, and enjoy hap- of-the-way place, far from the public road, and piness, but that they take some interest in the, only approached by lanes and bye-ways. I often business of this world, and even that their wondered what could have induced any one to interest in it has a connection with the pur- open a public where there was so little chance of suits and habits of their former life. The vir- it ever becoming remunerative. It appears that tuous cares which occupied them on earth, he distinctly remembers his grandfather in the mine host inherited it from his father, and that follow them into their new abode. Moses and self-same character he now sustains. And, inElias had spent the days of their temporal deed,' he used to say, 'I know not but my great pilgrimage in promoting among their brethren grandfather may have kept this house too." the knowledge and the worship of the true The building certainly bore marks of great antiGod. They are still attentive to the same quity. great object; and, enraptured at the prospect, "As I rode along, seeking a reason for Mr. of its advancement, they descend on this Writ's appointment, I caught a glimpse of the occasion to animate the labors of Jesus, and house through the lofty elms with which it was to prepare him for his victory over the pow- surrounded. Urging my horse to a gallop I was ers of hell. soon at the door; night had already set in, yet "Indeed I'll do no such thing, here I stay tonight. If Mr. Writ expects me to follow him all over England he is much mistaken,' and I got off my horse in rather an angry mood. "Well, well, sir, we'll make you comfortable here, and give you a glorious supper.' What a delightful subject of contempla- through the gloom I recognized the portly form tion does this reflection open to the pious and of Peter Tindal, the landlord, who, seated near benevolent mind! What a spring does it the doorway, was smoking his pipe, Ah,' said give to all the better energies of the heart-he, you have come to see Mr. Writ, but he left Your labors of love, your plans of benefi- will immediately follow him.' two hours ago for London, and requests that you cence, your swellings of satisfaction in the' rising reputation of those whose virtues you have cherished, will not, we have reason to hope, be terminated by the stroke of death. No! your spirits will still linger around the| objects of their former attachment; they will behold with rapture, even the distant effects of those beneficent institutions which they once delighted to rear: they will watch with a pious satisfaction over the growing prospe rity of the country which they loved; with a parent's fondness, and a parent's exultation, they will share in the fame of their virtuous posterity; and-by the permission of God— they may descend, at times, as guardian angels, to shield them from danger, and to con-, duct them to glory! "Aye, that's right, a steak, a chop, a jug of ale, and fresh bread, will make me rather rejoice in the trick my lawyer has played me.' ing you, I made preparation," and away he went, first sending his daughter, who had come to the door during our conversation, with my horse to "You will have that, and more, for expect the stable. Besides Mine host was as good as his word, I enjoyed an excellent supper, and now felt in high good humor; indeed I debated with myself the propriety of immediately setting out for London, Of all the thoughts that can enter the but self had its own way, deciding that did I now human mind, this is one of the most anima- start it would be past midnight ere I reached Mr. ting and consolatory. It scatters flowers Writ's chambers, and that, all things considered, around the bed of death. It enables us who I had better secure a good night's rest. are left behind, to support with firmness, the why not leave early in the morning? Yes,' said departure of our best beloved friends, because I, I shall breakfast with Writ, tomorrow.' it teaches us that they are not lost to us for ever. They are still our friends. Though they be now gone to another apartment in our Father's house, they have carried with them the remembrance and the feeling of their former attachments. Though invisible to us-they bend from their dwelling on high to cheer us in our pilgrimage of duty, to rejoice with us in our prosperity, and, in the As soon as I had formed this resolution, I and a pipe, and bring with thee, Peter, a second called to Peter Tindal for another glass of toddy glass, for I'm lonely, and would chat a while.' "That I will, sir, readily,' said he, disappearing, and ere five minutes had elapsed I was smoking a pipe with honest Peter, having alrea dy drank his health and that of his blooming daughter, Rose, an only child. "God grant her health,' said Peter, in reply to my toast, in an earnest and what appeared to me an agitated manner. "Hoot man, I drank to her health out of compliment, her good health can't be bettered, she looks as fresh and as flourishing as life itself, death would fear to present himself to her.' "Peter shook his head, "It is not her death I dread, but oh! that which is much worse-her bodily health is good, but her mind'-and he touched his forehead. "My goodness,' said I, in alarm, 'is it possible that there can be any grounds for such fears?' "Hush! speak not so loud, I'll tell you,' and drawing near his chair, whispered she had a sister.' "A sister!' I exclaimed in astonishment, for I had known Peter during the last three or four years, and had often visited his house, yet had never heard that he had any other child than Rose, who, I must say, had never, in my presence, exhibited any symptoms to warrant the slightest suspicion of her sanity. Yes, a sister, and a fairer or a greater beauty I never saw, from the first I dreaded that we should lose her early, for she appeared too good and beautiful to live.' "And she died a child?' "She is still living, living-Oh, God have mercy on her!' "She was born about this season of the year, yes, it was this night now twenty years ago that she was born; she was our first, and my wife would not allow her from her sight, 'It seemed so strange,' she said, 'to be a mother,' and then she pressed the child still closer to her breast, then holding her up for me to look at, would say 'Peter, I can scarce believe it to be our child,' Poor wife, we have shed many bitter tears for Mary.' "You called her Mary?' "Yes, and I know not why, none of our friends or relations were so called, but my wife fancied it; women have often strange fancies, she insisted that she should be christened as soon as the new year began, and I, to please her, requested our clergyman to do so, as 'twas said the church was to be open that night for saying a few prayers and singing a hymn to the new year. He consented, though he thought the request a strange one. We went, our child was called Mary.' He paused, as if recalling the scene to his mind, which certainly must have been a strange one-a midnight christening-I had heard of burial by torch-light, but a christening-never. "Our child throve well, and, if anything, became more beautiful as she grew older; she appeared always happy and contented, seldom crying, never causing her mother trouble. Sometimes so quiet would she lie in her little cot, that her mother, fearful lest any accident should have happened to her, would creep noiselessly forward to her couch, and peeping in, would find her large blue eyes gazing stedfastly upward, her lips always smiling or moving as if speaking, though no sound was uttered.' "Thus passed a year, and Rose was born, but Rose never was the handsome, happy girl that Mary was. It was not till Mary was five or six years old, that we noticed a strangeness in her manner; a better disposed girl there was not, but she talked queerly, and of things she said she saw in her mind which she aflirmed really existed. Her mother once punished her for this, and told her, that God would not love her, if she coutinued to talk of such things, for it was wicked. Mother,' she replied, bursting into tears, Will God be angry if I speak the truth!' 'But it is not true my dear child, no one else sees what you see! Mother, I see and feel what I say is true, and I dream, oh! such happy dreams, and hear angels singing round my bed, they teach me songs, and there is one I always see, so bright and lovely, even now, mother, I feel her presence!' Her mother turned aside to weep, and pray God to spare her darling's mind. "Time flew on, she grew apace and grew in loveliness, but her strange ways continued; she cared not for play as other children, and although she appeared to love Rose and her mother dearly, yet would she steal away, strolling through the fields, weaving garlands of wild flowers, singing the while with her beautiful voice, melodies of the most wild, aye, most unearthly character. Our neighbors feared her, though God knows she was harmless and innocent, nor would they allow their children near her. Except ourselves she was shunned by all." "At last, she was now sixteen. I took her to London to consult with some physician regarding her, he told me plainly she was mad, but thought if placed in an Asylum, care and attention might restore her to us. Her mother would not hear of it, she said the child was very well with us, and that we would only render her miserable by placing her among strangers. To please my wife, I brought poor Mary home. That winter my wife died. Mary never shed a tear, for a day or two she was silent, she seemed stunned; but on her mother being placed in the grave, she burst into such a strange, wild chaunt, that the clergyman who was reading the burial service paused. She praised God for his kindness in releasing her mother from this sinful world, and thanked her 'fairy angel" for comforts she had bestowed on her. Our hearts were full before, but now we were moved to tears. On finishing, she strayed away from the grave and appeared to be gathering flowers at a distance, none sought to follow her. The service ended, all left the yard save I, who remained to watch my child; she perceiving me came to me, and throwing her arms about my neck, kissed me. 'Father, here are flowers for mother.' 'Come, my child, come home with me! Yes, father, but you forget the flowers,' and tripping forwards she scattered them over the new-filled grave. "That night I determined to place her in some asylum, for I hoped that she might be benefitted by proper medical treatment. The next morning I told her that I would take her to see new friends who would make her happy; she said that she was happy with me, but if I wished it she'd 399 go.' THE MAJOR.-Time wears on, and we have yet much work before us. I think, Doctor, that instead of finishing the reading of the tale, you had better give us the mere outline. THE DOCTOR.-The tale conciu les by showing how certainly any departure from the wise plan masked out for man's happiness by an omniscient Creator must tend to his ultimate unhappiness. Mary, on being taken to London, and exposed to the materialities of every day life, whilst her guardian angel is ever in close communion with her; although pure as the spirit that watches over her, yet by a harsh-judging world is pronounced to be the reverse; her very guilessness is used against her, and her wrapt commutings are consider ed by most to be but a part she is playing, such as Joanna Southcote figured in. After several very interesting passages she is, however, represented as en ling her days in a private asylum for the insane. There are several touching passages, and some well-; conceived episodes in the tale, but I think it a pity, as I would like to have it given to our readers at length, to say more about it, lest it should lose its interest. THE LAIRD.—And wha may the author be? THE DOCTOR.-I am not at liberty to divulge the name, even to you, Laird, until I have conferred farther, but I expect either to see or hear again very shortly from Mr. T., with reference to one or two suggestions that I have to make about the conclusion of the tale. burgh railway, or it might be drawn up by means of the atmospheric tube, a plan a lopted with success on some European works of a similar nature. THE DOCTOR-Wou'd not the cutting through an entire body of solid rock be a very tedious and expensive operation? THE MAJOR.—Mr. Hay is of opinion, from close calculation, that it would not be more expensive than ordinary tunnelling in England-he contends that in soft ground tunnelling requires expensive arching, whereas in solid rock none is necessary; and besides, the stone, which would be procured from the excavation, might be available as building material or converted into lime. THE DOCTOR.-Would not a suspension bridge answer the purpose equally well, and be much cheaper than a tunnel ? THE MAJOR-I scarcely think that a bridge, of any description that could be applied in this case, would be so safe as a tunnel. THE DOCTOR.-Yet there was the Menai bridge which answered perfectly well. THE MAJOR-True-as safe perhaps, but not so durable; besides, the principle of suspension as applicable to railway bridges was rejected, as objectionable in many respects, by Stephenson, the great English engineer, who, you may remember, formed and carried out the magnificent plan of the Britannia tubular bridge. And although a bridge might be cheaper at the outset, there can be little, if any, question but that a tunnel would THE DOCTOR.-Many thanks both for my-be cheaper in the end, as it would not be likeself and Mr. T, but I believe a quiet evening ly to require so much repair. But more experitéte-a-tête will be preferred in the first in-enced heads than ours, Doctor, have to setstance, I expect, however, that in due time tle the question, so I think that we had betanother Shantyite will take a seat at our board. THE MAJOR.-You have our permission to invite the author to the shanty. THE MAJOR.-Have you seen the proposal to tunnel the Nigara yet? The scheme has been propounded, Laird, by one of your coun trymen. THE LAIRD.-I saw something about it in the papers, but canna just call to mind a' the ins and outs o' the matter. THE MAJOR.-Mr. Hay proposes to tunnel' the river, at a point nearly opposite Buffalo. The bed of the tunnel would be the segment of a circle, the dip commencing some distance from the margin of the river on either side. THE DOCTOR.-Would not the rise, or gradient as, I believe, engineers term it, at either end, be difficult to overcome with a heavy train? ter begin our review department: by the way, have you seen the Maple Leaf? THE DOCTOR.-I have but glanced over some of the numbers. I find that Mrs. Traill is to be a contributor to its pages, which speaks well for it, as no woman of talent would waste her time in writing for an indifferent or second rate periodical. THE LAIRD.--It is a very bonnie and weel got up little wark, and ane I wad recommend as a very judicious Christmas present from ae friend to anither, wha may be blessed wi' bairns; but me that douce looking volume, Major, that you are leaning your elbow upon. I hae been trying to read the title on the back o't for the last ten minutes. rax THE MAJOR.-It is an exceedingly well puttogether production, I can assure you: “Outlines of English Literature, by Thomas B. THE MAJOR.—The mere momentum a train Shaw.” Messrs. Blanchard & Lea, of Philawould acquire from the declivity at one end delphia, are the re-publishers thereof, and would send it up a considerable distance on Henry T. Tuckerman has added a sketch of the incline of the other, where it would hook; American literature, which contains more on to a wire rope, by means of which and a sound sense, and less clap-trap, than we genstationary engine it would be drawn up to erally meet with in Yankee writers. the level, as is done in the tunnel under the THE LAIRD.-I see that Maister Shaw is an city of Edinburgh, on the Granton and Edin-English professor in that cauld corner o' the globe, St. Petersburgh. Is it not strange tha' the Anglo-Saxon literature should find sic favour wi' outlandish caterans like the Russians, wha knout their women, and lunch upon black bread and train oil? THE MAJOR.-Such is the case, however. In the dominions of the northern autocrat there is no foreign tongue so universally popular amongst the better classes as that of Old England. Few families of any mark are devoid of a British governess to indoctrinate their olive branches with a knowledge of the language in which Shakspeare sung and Chatham declaimed. THE LAIRD.-I think ye said that the St. Petersburgh professor had turned out a tradesmanlike piece o' goods in the buik before us? THE MAJOR.-Emphatically so! If you wish to found a chair of English literature in the Street.ville University, you could not find a better class-book than this same goodly octavo. Mr. Shaw is a perfect master of his subject: his criticisms, in general, are sound and discriminating; and the extracts which he cites are appropriate and characteristic. THE DOCTOR.-Do you know, Crabtree, that the rising generation runs a perilous risk of becoming profoundly superficial? With the aid of a compilation, like the one under notice, every whipper-snapper gets, what he conceives to be a competent knowledge of the literature of his country, and on the strength of such slim nutriment sets up in trade for himself as a man of letters. THE MAJOR.-There is some cause for your growl. Works like that of Professor Shaw, which as text books are deserving of commendation, become positive pests and evils through a forest, or over a heath at sunset, and ends with an innocent and somewhat spoony man escaping the gallows, just as Jack Ketch is about to draw the fatal bolt. THE LAIRD.-You're clean aff your eggs, Sangrado, for ance in your life; there is very little mannerism in the Ticissitudes. It is worthy of the best and freshest days o' the maist prolific, and what is better, the maist moral fictionist o' the day. Beg your pardon, Major, for borrowing ane o' your new coined words! The scene is laid partly in France, at the outbreak o' the first revolution, and the story concludes happily, (as a' decent stories should do) in merry England. THE DOCTOR.-What is the plot? THE LAIRD.-Read and ye'll find oot! I mortally abominate spoiling the appetite by letting a body ken beforehand whether Jock was married to Jenny, and how justice overtook the auld sneckdrawer that would hae parted them. THE DOCTOR.-Perhaps you are right. Never did I suffer so much annoyance, as on the evening when I first witnessed the representation of my old friend Sheridan Knowles' sterling play, The Wife of Mantua. For my sins I was seated beside a prosing, prating fellow, who had seen the drama, and insisted at the close of every scene, upon telling me what was to be enacted in the next. I could have twisted the vagabond's neck and tossed him into the pit. THE LAIRD. And why did ye no execute such an act o' righteous poetical justice? THE DOCTOR.-Alas! my poverty and not my will moved me to spare him. I owed him certain unpaid "monies," as the fat knight hath it, and was meditating the borrowation when used as exclusive sources of informa- of more. tion. THE LAIRD. It minds me o' setting a hungry man to feed upon puff paste whigmaleeries, shaped after the similitudes o' legs o' mutton and sirloins o' beef. 66 THE LAIRD.-Puir man! puir man! Ye were muckle to be pitied. But, I say, Major, what kind o' a thing is this flaming-looking volume, published by Garrett and Co. o' New York, and answering to the title o' Rochester, or the Merry Days of England?" THE MAJOR-A very so-so production. If Mr. Babbage could construct a writing as well as a calculating machine, this is precisely the species of stuff which we might expect it to produce. We have the old story of hypocritical roundheads and licentious cavaliers THE LAIRD.-I hae just finished the last a second edition of Alice Bridgenorth-and published tale o' G. P. R. James, and can honestly recommend it to your notice. THE MAJOR-Or rather, of mocking a ploughman who has been "between the stilts" for hours, with the delusion of a Vauxhall slice of ham. Hodge may boast of having discussed a meat dinner, but, except for the name of the thing, he might as well have banqueted upon shavings and sawdust. THE DOCTOR.-You mean, I presume, "A Life of Vicissitudes, a tale of Revolutionary Times." I have not had time so much as to cut up the copy which our friend Maclear transmitted to ine with his devoirs. THE LAIRD.-Read it at your first odd moment o' leisure. Ye'll no repent it. THE DOCTOR.-I suppose it is the old song over again. The book opens, I could lay a wager, with two horsemen wending their way a Jesuit "whose neb is never out of some mischief." The style is tolerable, and there is evidenced a fair acquaintance with the outlines of history, but in vain will you look for delineation of character, or any thing in the shape of wit, fancy, or invention. THE LAIR-Awa wi' the trash! Here is Whitehall, or the Times of Cromwell, is it a pear frae the same tree? THE MAJOR.-Far from it. Whitehall is a sound, healthy, vigorous fiction, evidently from the pen of one who has read up to his subject. |