a blind passion, the offspring of romance; nor has she any of that morbid colouring of the darker passions in which other novelists excel. The clear daylight of nature, as reflected in domestic life, in scenes of variety and sorrowful truth, as well as of vivacity and humour, is her genial and inexhaustible element. Instruction is always blended with amusement. A finer moral lesson cannot anywhere be found than the distress of the Bertram family in Mansfield Park,' arising from the vanity and callousness of the two daughters, who had been taught nothing but 'accomplishments,' without any regard to their dispositions and temper. These instructive examples are brought before us in action, not by lecture or preachment, and they tell with double force, because they are not inculcated in a didactic style. The genuine but unobtrusive merits of Miss Austen have been but poorly rewarded by the public as respects fame and popularity, though her works are now rising in public esteem. 'She has never been so popular,' says a critic in the Edinburgh Review, as she deserved to be. Intent on fidelity of delineation, and averse to the commonplace tricks of her art, she has not, in this age of literary quackery, received her reward. Ordinary readers have been apt to judge of her as Partridge, in Fielding's novel, judged of Garrick's acting. He could not see the merit of a man who merely behaved on the stage as anybody might be expected to behave under similar circumstances in real life. He infinitely preferred the "robustious periwig-pated fellow," who flourished his arms like a windmill, and ranted with the voice of three. It was even so with many of the readers of Miss Austen. She was too natural for them. It seemed to them as if there could be very little merit in making characters act and talk so exactly like the people whom they saw around them every day. They did not consider that the highest triumph of art consists in its concealment; and here the art was so little perceptible, that they believed there was Her works, like well-proportioned rooms, are rendered less apparently grand and imposing by the very excellence of their adjustment.' Sir Walter Scott, after readingPride and Prejudice' for the third time, thus mentions the merits of Miss Austen in his private diary: That young lady had a talent for describing the involvements, and feelings, and characters of ordinary life, which is to me the most wonderful I ever met with. The big bow-wow strain I can do myself, like any now going; but the exquisite touch which renders ordinary commonplace things and characters interesting from the truth of the description and the sentiment, is denied What a pity such a gifted creature died so none. to me. early!' MRS BRUNTON. MRS MARY BRUNTON, authoress of Self-Control and Discipline, two novels of superior merit and moral tendency, was born on the 1st of November 1778. She was a native of Burrey, in Orkney, a small island of about 500 inhabitants, no part of which is more than 300 feet above the level of the sea, and which is destitute of tree or shrub. In this remote and sea-surrounded region the parents of Mary Brunton occupied a leading station. Her father was Colonel Balfour of Elwick, and her mother, an accomplished woman, niece of fieldmarshal Lord Ligonier, in whose house she had resided previous to her marriage. Mary was carefully educated, and instructed by her mother in the French and Italian languages. She was also sent some time to Edinburgh; but while she was only sixteen, her mother died, and the whole cares and duties of the household devolved on her. With these she was incessantly occupied for four years, and at the expiration of that time she was married to the Rev. Mr Brunton, minister of Bolton, is Haddingtonshire. In 1803 Mr Brunton was called to one of the churches in Edinburgh, and his lady had thus an opportunity of meeting with persons of literary talent, and of cultivating her own mind. Till I began Self-Control,' she says in one of her letters, I had never in my life written anything but a letter or a recipe, excepting a few hundreds of vile rhymes, from which I desisted by the time I had gained the wisdom of fifteen years; therefore I was so ignorant of the art on which I was entering, that I formed scarcely any plan for my tale. I merely intended to show the power of the religious principle in bestowing self command, and to bear testimony against a maxim as immoral as indelicate, that a reformed rake makes the best husband.' 'SelfControl' was published without the author's name in 1811. The first edition was sold in a month, and a second and third were called for. In 1814 her second work, 'Discipline,' was given to the world, and was also well received. She began a third, Emmeline, but did not live to finish it. She died on the 7th of December 1818. The unfinished tale, and a memoir of its lamented authoress, were published in one volume by her husband, Dr Brunton Self-Control' bids fair to retain a permanent place among British novels, as a sort of Scottish Calebs, recommended by its moral and religious tendency, no less than by the talent it displays The acute observation of the authoress is seen the development of little traits of character and con duct, which give individuality to her portraits, and a semblance of truth to the story. Thus the gradual decay, mental and bodily, of Montreville, the ac count of the De Courcys, and the courtship of Montague, are true to nature, and completely removed out of the beaten track of novels. The plot is very unskilfully managed. The heroine, Laura, is involved in a perpetual cloud of difficulties and dangers, some of which (as the futile abduction by Warren, and the arrest at Lady Pelham's) are unnecessary and improbable. The character of Har grave seems to have been taken from that of Lovelace, and Laura is the Clarissa of the tale. Her high principle and purity, her devotion to her father, and the force and energy of her mind (without overstepping feminine softness), impart a strong interest to the narrative of her trials and adventures. She surrounds the whole, as it were, with an atmosphere of moral light and beauty, and melts into something like consistency and unity the discordant materials of the tale. The style of the work is also calculated to impress the reader: it is always appropriate, and rises frequently into passages of striking sentiment and eloquence. [Final Escape of Laura.] [The heroine is carried off by the stratagems of Hargrave, put on board a vessel, and taken to the shores of Canada There, in a remote secluded cabin, prepared for her reception, she is confined till Hargrave can arrive. Even her wonted firmness and religious faith seem to forsake her in this last and greatest of her calamities, and her health sinks under the continued influence of grief and fear.] The whole of the night preceding Hargrave's arriva was passed by Laura in acts of devotion. In her life, blameless as it had appeared to others, she saw so much ground for condemnation, that, had her hopes rested upon her own merit, they would have vanished like the sunshine of a winter storm. Their support was more mighty, and they remained unshaken. The raptures of faith beamed on her soul. By degrees they triumphed over every fear; and the first sound that awoke the morning, was her voice raised in a trembling hymn of praise. At man own their alliance with pain, by seeking the same expression. Joy and gratitude, too big for utterance, long poured themselves forth in tears. length, returning composure permitting the language of ecstacy, it was breathed in the accents of devotion; and the lone wild echoed to a song of deliver ance. Her countenance elevated as in hope, her eyes cast upwards, her hands clasped, her lips half open in the unfinished adoration, her face brightened with a smile the dawn of eternal day, she was found by her attendant. Awe-struck, the woman paused, and at a reve- The saintly strain arose unmixed with other sound. rent distance gazed upon the seraph; but her entrance No breeze moaned through the impervious woods; no had called back the unwilling spirit from its flight; ripple broke the stream. The dark shadows trembled and Laura, once more a feeble child of earth, faintly for a moment in its bosom as the little bark stole by, inquired whether her enemy were at hand. Mary and then reposed again. No trace appeared of human answered, that her master was not expected to arrive presence. The fox peeping from the brushwood, the before the evening, and intreated that Laura would wild duck sailing stately in the stream, saw the untry to recruit her spirits, and accept of some refresh- wonted stranger without alarm, untaught as yet to ment. Laura made no opposition. She unconsciously flee from the destroyer. swallowed what was placed before her; unwittingly suffered her attendant to lead her abroad; nor once heeded aught that was done to her, nor aught that passed before her eyes, till her exhausted limbs found rest upon the trunk of a tree, which lay mouldering near the spot where its root was sending forth a luxuriant thicket. The breath of morning blew chill on the wasted form of Laura, while it somewhat revived her to strength and recollection. Her attendant seeing her shiver in the breeze, compassionately wrapt her more closely in her cloak, and ran to seek a warmer covering. She feels for my bodily wants,' said Laura. 'Will she have no pity for the sufferings of the soul? Yet what relief can she afford? What help is there for me in man? Oh, be Thou my help, who art the guard of the defenceless! thou who canst shield in every danger! thou who canst guide in every difficulty!' Her eye rested as it fell upon a track as of recent footsteps. They had brushed away the dew, and the rank grass had not yet risen from their pressure. The unwonted trace of man's presence arrested her attention; and her mind, exhausted by suffering, and sharing the weakness of its frail abode, admitted the superstitious thought that these marks afforded a providential indication for her guidance. Transient animation kindling in her frame, she followed the track as it wound round a thicket of poplar; then, suddenly recollecting herself, she became conscious of the delusion, and shed a tear over her mental decay. She was about to return, when she perceived that she was near the bank of the river. Its dark flood was stealing noiselessly by, and Laura, looking on it, breathed the oft-repeated wish that she could seek rest beneath its waves. Again she moved feebly forward. She reached the brink of the stream, and stood unconsciously following its course with her eye, when, a light wind stirring the canes that grew down to the water's edge, she beheld close by her an Indian canoe. With suddenness that mocks the speed of light, hope flashed on the darkened soul; and stretching her arms in wild ecstacy, Help, help!' cried Laura, and sprang towards the boat. A feeble echo from the farther shore alone returned the cry. Again she called. No human voice replied. But delirious transport lent vigour to her frame. She sprang into the bark; she pressed the slender oar against the bank. The light vessel yielded to her touch. It floated. The stream bore it along. The woods closed around her prison. Thou hast delivered me!' she cried; and sank senseless. A meridian sun beat on her uncovered head ere Laura began to revive. Recollection stole upon her like the remembrance of a feverish dream. As one who, waking from a fearful vision, still trembles in his joy, she scarcely dared to hope that the dread hour was past, till raising her eyes, she saw the dark woods bend over her, and steal slowly away as the canoe glided on with the tide. The raptures of fallen The day declined, and Laura, with the joy of her escape, began to mingle a wish, that, ere the darkness closed around her, she might find shelter near her fellow-beings. She was not ignorant of the dangers of her voyage. She knew that the navigation of the river was interrupted by rapids, which had been purposely described in her hearing. She examined her frail vessel, and trembled; for life was again becom precious, and feeble seemed her defence against the torrent. The canoe, which could not have contair.ed more than two persons, was constructed of a slender frame of wood, covered with the bark of the birch. It yielded to the slightest motion, and caution was necessary to poise in it even the light form of Laura. Slowly it floated down the lingering tide; and when a pine of larger size or form more fantastic than his fellows enabled her to measure her progress, she thought that through wilds less impassable her cwn limbs would have borne her more swiftly. In vain, behind each tangled point, did her fancy picture the haunt of man. Vainly amid the mists of eve did she trace the smoke of sheltered cottages. In vain at every winding of the stream she sent forward a longing eye in search of human dwelling. The narrow view was bounded by the dark wilderness, repeating ever the same picture of dreary repose. The sun went down. The shadows of evening fell; not such as in her happy native land blend softly with the last radiance of day, but black and heavy, harshly contrasting with the light of a naked sky reflected from the waters, where they spread beyond the gloom of impending woods. Dark and more dark the night came on. Solemn even amid the peopled land, in this vast solitude it became more awful. Ignorant how near the place of danger might be, fearing to pursue darkling her perilous way, Laura tried to steer her light bark to the shore, intending to moor it, to find in it a rude resting-place, and in the morning to pursue her way. Laboriously she toiled, and at length reached the bank in safety; but in vain she tried to draw her little vessel to land. Its weight resisted her strength. Dreading that it should slip from her grasp, and leave her without mans of escape, she re-entered it, and again glided on in her dismal voyage. She had found in the canoe a little coarse bread made of Indian corn; and this, with the water of the river, formed her whole sustenance. Her frame worn out with previous suffering, awe and fear at last yielded to fatigue, and the weary wanderer sank to sleep. It was late on the morning of a cloudy day, when a low murmuring sound, stealing on the silence, awoke Laura from the rest of innocence. She listened. The murmur seemed to swell on her ear. She looked up. The dark woods still bent over her; but they no longer touched the margin of the stream. They stretched their giant arms from the summit of a precipice. Their image was no more reflected unbroken. The gray rocks which supported them, but half lent their colours to the rippling water. The wild duck no longer tempting the stream, flew screaming over its bed. Each object hastened on with fearful rapidity, and the murmuring sound was now a deafening roar. Fear supplying superhuman strength, Laura strove to turn the course of her vessel. She strained every nerve; she used the force of desperation. Half hoping that the struggle might save her, half fearing to note her dreadful progress, she toiled on till the oar was torn from her powerless grasp, and hurried along with the tide. The fear of death alone had not the power to overwhelm the soul of Laura. Somewhat might yet be done perhaps to avert her fate, at least to prepare for it. Feeble as was the chance of life, it was not to be rejected. Fixing her cloak more firmly round her, Laura bound it to the slender frame of the canoe. Then commending herself to Heaven with the fervour of a last prayer, she in dread stillness awaited her doom. With terrible speed the vessel hurried on. It was whirled round by the torrent, tossed fearfully, and hurried on again. It shot over a smoothness more dreadful than the eddying whirl. It rose upon its prow. Laura clung to it in the convulsion of terror. A moment she trembled on the giddy verge. The next, all was darkness ! When Laura was restored to recollection, she found herself in a plain decent apartment. Several persons of her own sex were humanely busied in attending her. Her mind retaining a confused impression of the past, she inquired where she was, and how she had been brought thither. An elderly woman, of a prepossessing appearance, answered, with almost maternal kindness, that she was among friends all anxious for her safety; begged that she would try to sleep, and promised to satisfy her curiosity when she should be more able to converse.' This benevolent person, whose name was Falkland, then administered a restorative to her patient, and Laura, uttering almost incoherent expressions of gratitude, composed herself to rest. Awaking refreshed and collected, she found Mrs Falkland and one of her daughters still watching by her bedside. Laura again repeated her questions, and Mrs Falkland fulfilled her promise, by relating that her husband, who was a farmer, having been employed with his two sons in a field which overlooked the river, had observed the canoe enter the rapid: that seeing it too late to prevent the accident, they had hurried down to the bed of the stream below the fall, in hopes of intercepting the boat at its reappearance: that being accustomed to float wood down the torrent, they knew precisely the spot where their assistance was most likely to prove effectual: that the canoe, though covered with foam for a moment, had instantly risen again; and that Mr Falkland and his sons had, not without danger, succeeded in drawing it to land. She then, in her turn, inquired by what accident Laura had been exposed to such a perilous adventure; expressing wonder at the direction of her voyage, since Falkland farm was the last inhabited spot in that district. Laura, mingling her natural reserve with a desire to satisfy her kind hostess, answered that she had been torn from her friends by an inhuman enemy, and that her perilous voyage was the least effect of his barbarity. Do you know,' said Mrs Falkland, somewhat mistaking her meaning, that to his cruelty you partly owe your life; for had he not bound you to the canoe, you must have sunk while the boat floated on!' Laura heard with a faint smile the effect of her self-possession; but considering it as a call to pious gratitude rather than a theme of self-applause, she forbore to offer any claim to praise, and the subject was suffered to drop without further explanation. Having remained for two days with this hospitable family, Laura expressed a wish to depart. She cou municated to Mr Falkland her desire of returning immediately to Europe, and begged that he would introduce her to some asylum where she might wait the departure of a vessel for Britain. She expressed her willingness to content herself with the poorest accommodation, confessing that she had not the means of purchasing any of a higher class. All the wealth, indeed, which she could command, consisted in a few guineas which she had accidentally had about her when she was taken from her home, and a ring which Mrs De Courcy had given her at parting. Her host kindly urged her to remain with them till they should ascertain that a vessel was immediately to sail, in which she might secure her passage; assuring her a week scarcely ever elapsed without some departure for her native country. Finding, however, that she was anxious to be gone, Mr Falkland himself accompanied her to Quebec. They travelled by land. The country at first bore the characters of a half-redeemed wilderness. The road wound at times through dreary woods, at others through fields where noxious variety of hue bespoke imperfect cultivation. At last it approached the great river; and Laura gazed with delight on the everchanging, rich, and beautiful scenes which were presented to her view; scenes which she had passed unheeded when grief and fear veiled every prospect in gloom. One of the nuns in the Hotel Dieu was the sister of Mrs Falkland, and to her care Mr Falkland intended to commit his charge. But before he had been an hour in the town, he received information that a ship was weighing anchor for the Clyde, and Laura eagerly em braced the opportunity. The captain being informed by Mr Falkland that she could not advance the price of her passage, at first hesitated to receive her; but when, with the irresistible candour and majesty that shone in all her looks and words, she assured him of his reward, when she spoke to him in the accents of his native land, the Scotsman's heart melted; and having satisfied himself that she was a Highlander, he closed the bargain by swearing that he was sure he might trust her. With tears in her eyes Laura took leave of her benevolent host; yet her heart bounded with joy as she saw the vessel cleaving the tide, and each object in the dreaded land of exile swiftly retiring from her view. In a few days that dreaded land disappeared. In a few more the mountains of Cape Breton sank behind the wave. The brisk gales of autumn wafted the vessel cheerfully on her way; and often did Laura compute her progress. In a clear frosty morning towards the end of September she heard once more the cry of 'Land!' now music to her ear. Now with a beating breast she ran to gaze upon a ridge of mountains indenting the disk of the rising sun; but the tears of rapture dimmed her eyes when every voice at once shouted 'Scotland!" All day Laura remained on deck, oft measuring with the light splinter the vessel's course through the deep. The winds favoured not her impatience. To wards evening they died away, and scarcely did the vessel steal along the liquid mirror. Another and another morning came, and Laura's ear was blessed with the first sounds of her native land. The tolling of a bell was borne along the water, now swelling loud, and now falling softly away. The humble village church was seen on the shore; and Laura could distinguish the gay colouring of her countrywomen's Sunday attire; the scarlet plaid, transmitted from generation to generation, pinned decently over the plain clean coif; the bright blue gown, the trophy of more recent housewifery. To her every form in the well-known garb seemed the form of a friend. The blue mountains in the distance, the scattered woods, MRS HAMILTON. brother, and the composition of two short papers which she sent to the Lounger. Mr Hamilton returned from India in 1786, in order that he might better fulfil an important duty intrusted to him, the translation of the Mussulman Code of Laws. It would not be easy to paint the joy and affection with which he was received by his sister. They spent the winter together in Stirlingshire, and in 1789, when her kind friend and protector, Mr Marshall, died, she quitted Scotland, and rejoined her brother in London. Mr Hamilton was cut off by a premature death in 1792. Shortly after this period commenced the literary life of Elizabeth Hamilton, and her first work was that to which we have alluded, connected with the memory of her lamented brother, The Letters of a Hindoo Rajah, in two volumes, published in 1796. The success of the work stimulated her exertions. In 1800 she published The Modern Philosophers, in three volumes; and between that period and 1806 she gave to the world Letters on Education, Memoirs of Agrippina, and Letters to the Daughters of a Nobleman. In 1808 appeared her most popular, original, and useful work, The Cottagers of Glenburnie;' and she subsequently published Popular Essays on the Human Mind, and Hints to the Directors of Public Schools. For many years Mrs Hamilton had fixed her residence in Edinburgh. She was enfeebled by ill health, but her cheerfulness and activity of mind continued unabated, and her society was courted by the most intellectual and influential of her fellow-citizens. The benevolence and correct judgment which animated her writings pervaded her conduct. Having gone to Harrowgate for the benefit of her health, Mrs Hamilton died at that place on the 23d of July 1816, aged sixty-eight. ELIZABETH HAMILTON, an amiable and accomplished miscellaneous writer, was authoress of one excellent little novel, or moral tale, The Cottagers of Glenburnie, which has probably been as effective in promoting domestic improvement among the rural population of Scotland as Johnson's Journey to the Hebrides was in encouraging the planting of trees by the landed proprietors. In both cases there was some exaggeration of colouring, but the pictures were too provokingly true and sarcastic to be laughed away or denied. They constituted a national reproach, and the only way to wipe it off was by timely reformation. There is still much to accomplish, but a marked improvement in the dwellings and internal economy of Scottish farm-houses and villages may be dated from the publication of the Cottagers of Glenburnie.' Elizabeth Hamilton was born in Belfast in the year 1758. Her father was a merchant, of a Scottish family, and died early, leaving a widow and three children. The latter were educated and brought up by relatives in better circumstances, Elizabeth, the youngest, being sent to Mr Marshall, a farmer in Stirlingshire, married to her father's sister. Her brother obtained a cadetship in the The Cottagers of Glenburnie' is in reality a tale East India Company's service, and an elder sister of cottage life, and derives none of its interest from was retained in Ireland. A feeling of strong affec- those strange and splendid vicissitudes, contrasts, tion seems to have existed among these scattered and sentimental dangers which embellish the ideal members of the unfortunate family. Elizabeth world of so many fictitious narratives. The scene found in Mr and Mrs Marshall all that could have is laid in a poor scattered Scottish hamlet, and the been desired. She was adopted and educated with heroine is a retired English governess, middle-aged a care and tenderness that has seldom been equalled. and lame, with £30 a-year! This person, Mrs 'No child,' she says, 'ever spent so happy a life, nor Mason, after being long in a noble family, is reduced have I ever met with anything at all resembling our from a state of ease and luxury into one of compaway of living, except the description given by Rous-rative indigence, and having learned that her cousin, seau of Wolmar's farm and vintage. A taste for her only surviving relative, was married to one of the literature soon appeared in Elizabeth Hamilton. small farmers in Glenburnie, she agreed to fix her Wallace was the first hero of her studies; but meet-residence in her house as a lodger. On her way she ing with Ogilvie's translation of the Iliad, she idolized Achilles, and dreamed of Hector. She had opportunities of visiting Edinburgh and Glasgow, after which she carried on a learned correspondence with Dr Moyse. a philosophical lecturer. She wrote also many copies of verses-that ordinary outlet for the warm feelings and romantic sensibilities of youth. Her first appearance in print was accidental. Having accompanied a pleasure party to the Highlands, she kept a journal for [Picture of Glenburnie, and View of a Scotch Cottage the gratification of her aunt, and the good woman showing it to one of her neighbours, it was sent to a provincial magazine. Her retirement in Stirlingshire was, in 1773, gladdened by a visit from her brother, then about to sail for India. Mr Hamilton seems to have been an excellent and able young man, and his subsequent letters and conversations on Indian affairs stored the mind of his sister with the materials for her Hindoo Rajah, a work equally remarkable for good sense and sprightliness. In 1778 Miss Hamilton lost her aunt, whose death was a heavy blow to the happy family. For the ensuing six years she devoted herself to the cares and duties of the household, her only literary employments being her correspondence with her called at Gowan-brae, the house of the factor or land-steward on the estate, to whom she had previously been known, and we have a graphic account of the family of this gentleman, one of whose daughters figures conspicuously in the after-part of the tale. Mr Stewart, the factor, his youngest daughter, and boys, accompany Mrs Mason to Glenburnie. in the Last Century.] They had not proceeded many paces until they were struck with admiration at the uncommon wildness of the scene which now opened to their view. The rocks which seemed to guard the entrance of the glen were abrupt and savage, and approached so near each other, that one could suppose them to have been riven asunder to give a passage to the clear stream which flowed between them. As they advanced, the hills receded on either side, making room for meadows and corn-fields, through which the rapid burn pursued its way in many a fantastic maze. If the reader is a traveller, he must know, and if he is a speculator in canals, he must regret, that rivers have in general a trick of running out of the straight line. But however they may in this resemble the moral conduct of man, it is but doing justice to these favourite children of nature to observe, that, in all their wanderings, each stream follows the strict injunctions of its parent, and never for a moment loses its original character. That our burn had a character of its own, no one who saw its spirited career could possibly have denied. It did not, like the lazy and luxuriant streams which glide through the fertile valleys of the south, turn and wind in listless apathy, as if it had no other object than the gratification of ennui or caprice. Alert, and impetuous, and persevering, it even from its infancy dashed onward, proud and resolute; and no sooner met with a rebuff from the rocks on one side of the glen, than it flew indignant to the other, frequently awaking the sleeping echoes by the noise of its wild career. Its complexion was untinged by the fat of the soil; for in truth the soil had no fat to throw away. But little as it owed to nature, and still less as it was indebted to cultivation, it had clothed itself in many shades of verdure. The hazel, the birch, and the mountain-ash, were not only scattered in profusion through the bottom, but in many places clomb to the very tops of the hills. The ineadows and corn-fields, indeed, seemed very evidently to have been encroachments made by stealth on the sylvan region; for none had their outlines marked with the mathematical precision in which the modern improver so much delights. Not a straight line was to be seen in Glenburnie. The very ploughs moved in curves; and though much cannot be said of the richness of the crops, the ridges certainly waved with all the grace and pride of beauty. The road, which winded along the foot of the hills, on the north side of the glen, owed as little to art as any country road in the kingdom. It was very narrow, and much encumbered by loose stones, brought down from the hills above by the winter torrents. attached to it was of so frail a nature as to make little resistance; so that he and his rider escaped unhurt from the fall, notwithstanding its being one of considerable depth. At first, indeed, neither boy nor horse was seen; but as Mr Stewart advanced to examine, whether by removing the hay, which partly covered the bridge and partly hung suspended on the bushes, the road might still be passable, he heard a child's voice in the hollow exclaiming, Come on, ye muckle brute! ye had as weel come on! I'll gar ye! I'll gar ye! That's a gude beast now; come awa! That's it! Ay, ye're a gude beast now!' As the last words were uttered, a little fellow of about ten years of age was seen issuing from the hollow, and pulling after him, with all his might, a great long-backed clumsy animal of the horse species, though apparently of a very mulish temper. 'You have met with a sad accident,' said Mr Stewart; how did all this happen?' 'You may see how it happened plain eneugh,' returned the boy; 'the brig brak, and the cart couppet.' And did you and the horse coup likewise?' said Mr Stewart. 0 ay, we a' couppet thegither, for I was ridin' on his back.' And where is your father, and all the rest of the folk? Whaur sud they be but in the hay-field! | Dinna ye ken that we're takin' in our hay! John Tamson's and Jamie Forster's was in a week syne, but we're aye ahint the lave.' All the party were greatly amused by the com posure which the young peasant evinced under his misfortune, as well as by the shrewdness of his an swers; and having learned from him that the hayfield was at no great distance, gave him some halfpence to hasten his speed, and promised to take care of his horse till he should return with assistance. He soon appeared, followed by his father and two other men, who came on stepping at their usual pace. Why, farmer,' said Mr Stewart, 'you have trusted rather too long to this rotten plank, I think' (point the last time I passed this road, which was several months since, I then told you that the bridge was in danger, and showed you how easily it might be repaired?' Mrs Mason and Mary were so enchanted by the change of scenery which was incessantly unfolding to their view, that they made no complaints of the slow-ing to where it had given way); if you remember ness of their progress, nor did they much regret being obliged to stop a few minutes at a time, where they found so much to amuse and to delight them. But Mr Stewart had no patience at meeting with obstructions, which, with a little pains, could have been so easily 'It is a' true,' said the farmer, moving his bonnet; obviated; and as he walked by the side of the car, ex-but I thought it would do weel eneugh. I spoke to patiated upon the indolence of the people of the glen, Jamie Forster and John Tamson about it; but they who, though they had no other road to the market, said they wad na fash themselves to mend a brig that could contentedly go on from year to year without was to serve a' the folk in the glen.' making an effort to repair it. How little trouble would it cost,' said he, to throw the smaller of these loose stones into these holes and ruts, and to remove the larger ones to the side, where they would form a fence between the road and the hill! There are enough of idle boys in the glen to effect all this, by working at it for one hour a-week during the summer. But then their fathers must unite in setting them to work; and there is not one in the glen who would not sooner have his horses lamed, and his carts torn to pieces, than have his son employed in a work that would benefit his neighbours as much as himself.' As he was speaking, they passed the door of one of these small farmers; and immediately turning a sharp corner, began to descend a steep, which appeared so unsafe that Mr Stewart made his boys alight, which they could do without inconvenience, and going to the head of the horse, took his guidance upon himself. At the foot of this short precipice the road again made a sudden turn, and discovered to them a misfortune which threatened to put a stop to their proceeding any farther for the present evening. It was no other than the overturn of a cart of hay, occasioned by the breaking down of the bridge, along which it had been passing. Happily for the poor horse that drew this ill-fated load, the harness by which he was 6 But you must now mend it for your own sake,' said Mr Stewart, even though a' the folk in the glen should be the better for it.' Ay, sir,' said one of the men, that's spoken like yoursel'! would everybody follow your example, there would be nothing in the world but peace and good neighbourhood. Only tell us what we are to do, and I'll work at your bidding till it be pit-mirk." 'Well,' said Mr Stewart, bring down the planks that I saw lying in the barn-yard, and which, though you have been obliged to step over them every day since the stack they propped was taken in, have never been lifted. You know what I mean?' O yes, sir,' said the farmer, grinning, we ken what ye mean weel eneugh: and indeed I may ken for I have fallen thrice owre them since they lay there, and often said they sud be set by, but we cou❜dna be fashed.' While the farmer, with one of the men, went up, taking the horse with them, for the planks in question, all that remained set to work, under Mr Stewart's direction, to remove the hay, and clear away the rub bish; Mrs Mason and Mary being the only idle spec tators of the scene. In little more than half an hour the planks were laid, and covered with sod cut from the bank, and the bridge now only wanted a little |