"There is a hope will linger within, When earthly hope is vain, "Oh wae is my heart, John Carr,' said I, "O art thou there, my kind ladye, The best o' this warld's breed, Amang the hapless dead?' "I hae servants within my ca', John Carr, And if there is ony hope o' life, "O lady, there is nae hope o' life; And what were life to me? Wad ye save me frae the death of a man, "I hae nae hame to fly to now, Nae country, and nae kin; "But I hae a loving wife at hame, And twa babies, dear to me; They hae naebody now that dares favour them, "Oh for the sake of thy Saviour dear, "A lang farewell, my kind ladye! O'er weel I ken thy worth. Gae send me a drink o' the water o' Clyde, "O dinna tell me ony mair, ladye, "He wasna feared to dee, Janet, For he gloried in his death, "I row'd my apron round his head, "And the best leeches in a' the land And he never has lack'd my helping hand "I durstna tell you before, Janet, For I fear'd his life was gane, Then Janet she fell at her lady's feet, “Oh ye are an angel sent frae heaven, For, in distress, a friend or foe Is a' the same to thee. "If good deeds count in heaven, ladye, Ye hae done a deed will save your soul, "Get up, get up, my kind Janet, But never trow tongue or pen, Wha wadna hae shared that lady's joy Wha wadna rather share that lady's fate, Than that of the sternest anchorite, THE LOVERS' MOUNTAIN. We forget in what book it was, many years ago, that we read the story of a lover who was to win his mistress by carrying her to the top And wish'd to be laid with those who had bled of a mountain, and how he did win her, and For the same endearing faith. how they ended their days on the same spot.1 We think the scene was in Switzerland; but There were three wounds in his buirdly breast, the mountain, though enough to tax his stout And his limb was broke in twain, And the sweat ran down wi' his red heart's heart to the uttermost, must have been among 1 The story forms the subject of Mr. Moir's poem of Genevieve. the lowest. Let us fancy it a good lofty hill in the summer time. It was, at any rate, so high, that the father of the lady, a proud noble, thought it impossible for a young man so burdened to scale it. For this reason alone, in scorn, he bade him do it, and his daughter should be his. The peasantry assembled in the valley to witness so extraordinary a sight. They measured the mountain with their eyes; they communed with one another and shook their heads; but all admired the young man; and some of his fellows, looking at their mistresses, thought they could do as much. The father was on horseback, apart and sullen, repenting that he had subjected his daughter even to the show of such a hazard; but he thought it would teach his inferiors a lesson. The young man (though a small land proprietor, who had some pretensions to wealth, though none to nobility) stood, respectful-looking but confident, rejoicing in his heart that he should win his mistress, though at the cost of a noble pain, which he could hardly think of as a pain, considering who it was that he was to carry. If he died for it, he should at least have her in his arms, and have looked her in the face. To clasp her person in that manner was a pleasure which he contemplated with such transport as is known only to real lovers; for none others know how respect heightens the joy of dispensing with formality, and how the dispensing with the formality ennobles and makes grateful the respect. which he moves off, slow but secure, and as if encouraging his mistress. They mount the hill; they proceed well; he halts an instant, before he gets midway, and seems refusing something; then ascends at a quicker rate; and now being at the midway point, shifts the lady from one side to the other. The spectators give a great shout. The baron, with an air of indifference, bites the tip of his gauntlet, and then casts on them an eye of rebuke. At the shout the lover resumes his way. Slow, but not feeble in his step, yet it gets slower. He stops again, and they think they see the lady kiss him on the forehead. The women begin to tremble, but the men say he will be victorious. He resumes again; he is half-way between the middle and the top; he rushes, he stoops, he staggers; but he does not fall. Another shout from the men and he resumes once more; two-thirds of the remaining part of the way are conquered. They are certain the lady kisses him on the forehead and on the eyes. The women burst into tears, and the stoutest men look pale. He ascends slowlier than ever, but seeming to be more sure. He halts, but it is only to plant his foot to go on again; and thus he picks his way, planting his foot at every step, and then gaining ground with an effort. The lady lifts up her arms as if to lighten him. See: he is almost at the top: he stoops, he struggles, he moves sideways, taking very little steps, and bringing one foot every time close to the other. Now he is all but on the The lady stood by the side of her father, top: he halts again; he is fixed; he staggers. pale, desirous, and dreading. She thought A groan goes through the multitude. Sudher lover would succeed, but only because she denly he turns full front towards the top; it thought him in every respect the noblest of is luckily almost a level; he staggers, but it is his sex, and that nothing was too much for forward. Yes-every limb in the multitude his strength and valour. Great fears came makes a movement as if it would assist him— over her nevertheless. She knew not what see at last: he is on the top; and down he falls might happen in the chances common to all. flat with his burden. An enormous shout! She felt the bitterness of being herself the He has won. Now he has a right to caress burden to him and the task: and dared neither his mistress, and she is caressing him, for to look at her father nor the mountain. She neither of them gets up. If he has fainted, fixed her eyes now on the crowd (which never- it is with joy, and it is in her arms. theless she beheld not) and now on her hand and her fingers' ends, which she doubled up towards her with a pretty pretence the only deception she had ever used. Once or twice a daughter or a mother slipped out of the crowd, and coming up to her, notwithstanding their fears of the lord baron, kissed that hand which she knew not what to do with. The father said, "Now, sir, to put an end to this mummery;" and the lover, turning pale for the first time, took up the lady. The spectators rejoice to see the manner in The baron put spurs to his horse, the crowd following him. Half-way he is obliged to dismount; they ascend the rest of the hill together, the crowd silent and happy, the baron ready to burst with shame and impatience. They reach the top. The lovers are face to face on the ground, the lady clasping him with both hands, his lying on each side. "Traitor!" exclaimed the baron, "thou hast practised this feat before on purpose to deceive me. Arise!" "You cannot expect it, sir," said a worthy man, who was rich enough to speak his mind: "Samson himself might As 'neath thy rays, from earth yet moist with rain, take his rest after such a deed." "Part them!" said the baron. The perfumes of the day together roll, So pure and calm springs my old love again From out my softened soul. And age and youth in fancy reconciled; This friendly valley I but look upon, And am once more a child. Several persons went up, not to part them, but to congratulate and keep them together. The troubles of my life are past and gone; These people look close; they kneel down; they bend an ear; they bury their faces upon them. "God forbid they should ever be parted more,' said a venerable man; "they never can be." He turned his old face streaming with tears, and looked up at the baron: "Sir, they are dead!" REMEMBRANCE. FROM THE FRENCH OF ALFRED DE MUSSET. When back I venture to this sacred spot, I thought to suffer, while I hoped to weep; Thou dearest of all graves, yet minded not, Where only memories sleep. What feared ye then, friends, of this solitude? Why sought ye thus to take me by the hand, Just when old habit and old charm renewed Led me to where I stand? I know them in their bloom, the hills and heath; I know the fir-trees in their sombre green; The copses, where my whole youth as I pass Sweet scenes, fair desert where my mistress was, Oh, let them flow; I love them as they rise Yet will I with no vain lament alarm In idle moan let others waste the hours, Who kneel and pray beside some loved one's bier; All in this place breathes life; the churchyard flowers Grow not nor blossom here. Athwart the leafy shade, bright moon, I see thee; O mighty Time! O light years lightly fled! All blessings wait upon your healing wing: I had not thought that wound like mine would wear So keen an edge, and that the suffering Hence, all ye idle names for frivolous woes, Dante, why saidst thou that no grief is worse Is it less true that there is light on high- Nay, by yon torch whose splendour lighteth me, H. C. MERIVALE. LAST NIGHT. I sat with one I love last night, Last night I saw the stars arise, But clouds soon dimm'd the ether blue, And when we sought each other's eyes, Tears dimm'd them too. We e paced along our favourite walk, But paced in silence broken-hearted, Oh! grief can give the blight of years, MISS JEWSBURY. THE WOW O' RIVVEN. [George Mac Donald, LL.D., born at Huntly, 1825; poet and novelist. Within and Without a dramatic Mac Donald has won distinction as a writer who is al poem, first appeared in 1855, and since that date Mr. ways earnest and elevated in thought and purpose. A few of his most popular works are: Alec Forbes of Howglen: David Blginbrod; Robert Falconer: At the Back of the North Wind; Malcolm; Sir Gibbie (the last in 1879); &c. &c. His works display delicate perception of character and poetical sympathy with nature; but above all, and foremost evidently in the writer's thought, is the earnest aspiration to reveal the conditions and beauties of a pure, spiritual life. Strahan & Co. have published, in ten volumes, his Works of Fancy and Imagination. From this edition we take the following tale.] Elsie Scott had let her work fall on her knees, and her hands on her work, and was looking out of the wide, low window of her room, which was on one of the ground-floors of the village street. Through a gap in the household shrubbery of fuchsias and myrtles filling the window-sill, one passing on the footpavement might get a momentary glimpse of her pale face, lighted up with two blue eyes, over which some inward trouble had spread a faint, gauze-like haziness. But almost before her thoughts had had time to wander back to this trouble, a shout of children's voices, at the other end of the street, reached her ear. listened a moment. A shadow of displeasure and pain crossed her countenance; and rising hastily, she betook herself to an inner apartment, and closed the door behind her. She Meantime the sounds drew nearer; and byand-by an old man, whose strange appearance and dress showed that he had little capacity either for good or evil, passed the window. His clothes were comfortable enough in quality and condition, for they were the annual gift of a benevolent lady in the neighbourhood; but, being made to accommodate his taste, both known and traditional, they were somewhat peculiar in cut and adornment. Both coat and trowsers were of a dark gray cloth; but the former, which in its shape partook of the military, had a straight collar of yellow, and narrow cuffs of the same; while upon both sleeves, about the place where a corporal wears his stripes, was expressed, in the same yellow cloth, a somewhat singular device. It was as close an imitation of a bell, with its tongue hanging out of its mouth, as the tailor's skill could produce from a single piece of cloth. The origin of the military cut of his coat was well known. His preference for it arose in the time of the wars of the first Napoleon, when the threatened invasion of the country caused the organization of many volunteer regiments. The martial show and exercises captivated the poor man's fancy; and from that time forward nothing pleased his vanity, and consequently conciliated his good-will more, than to style him by his favourite title-the Colonel. But the badge on his arm had a deeper origin, which will be partially manifest in the course of the storyif story it can be called. It was, indeed, the baptism of the fool, the outward and visible sign of his relation to the infinite and unseen. His countenance, however, although the features were not of any peculiarly low or animal type, showed no corresponding sign of the consciousness of such a relation, being as vacant as human countenance could well be. The cause of Elsie's annoyance was that the fool was annoyed; he was followed by a troop of boys, who turned his rank into scorn, and assailed him with epithets hateful to him. Although the most harmless of creatures when let alone, he was dangerous when roused; and now he stooped repeatedly to pick up stones and hurl them at his tormentors, who took care, while abusing him, to keep at a considerable distance, lest he should get hold of them. Amidst the sounds of derision that followed him, might be heard the words frequently repeated-"Come hame, come hame." But in a few minutes the noise ceased, either from the interference of some friendly inhabitant, or that the boys grew weary, and departed in search of other amusement. By-and-by Elsie might be seen again at her work in the window; but the cloud over her eyes was deeper, and her whole face more sad. Indeed, so much did the persecution of this poor man affect her, that an onlooker would have been compelled to seek the cause in some yet deeper sympathy than that commonly felt for the oppressed, even by women. And such a sympathy existed, strange as it may seem, between the beautiful girl (for many called her a bonnie lassie) and this "tatter of humanity." Nothing would have been further from the thoughts of those that knew them, than the supposition of any correspondence or connection between them; yet this sympathy sprang in part from a real similarity in their history and present condition. All the facts that were known about Feel Jock's origin were these: that seventy years ago, a man who had gone with his horse and cart some miles from the village, to fetch home a load of peat from a desolate moss, had heard, while toiling along as rough a road on as lonely a hill-side as any in Scotland, the cry of a child; and, searching about, had found the infant, hardly wrapped in rags, and untended, as if the earth herself had just given him birth,-that desert moor, wide and dismal, broken and watery, the only bosom for him to lie upon, and the cold, clear night-heaven his only covering. The man had brought him home, and the parish had taken parish-care of him. He had grown up, and proved what he now was -almost an idiot. Many of the townspeople were kind to him, and employed him in fetching water for them from the river or wells in the neighbourhood, paying him for his trouble in victuals, or whisky, of which he was very fond. He seldom spoke; and the sentences he could utter were few; yet the tone, and even the words of his limited vocabulary, were sufficient to express gratitude and some measure of love towards those who were kind to him, and hatred of those who teased and insulted him. He lived a life without aim, and apparently to no purpose; in this resembling most of his more gifted fellow-men, who, with all the tools and materials necessary for building a noble mansion, are yet content with a clay hut. Elsie, on the contrary, had been born in a comfortable farm-house, amidst homeliness and abundance. But at a very early age she had lost both father and mother; not so early, however, but that she had faint memories of warm soft times on her mother's bosom, and of refuge in her mother's arms from the attacks of geese, and the pursuit of pigs. Therefore, in after-times, when she looked forward to heaven, it was as much a reverting to the old heavenly times of childhood and mother's love, as an anticipation of something yet to be revealed. Indeed, without some such memory, how should we ever picture to ourselves a perfect rest? But sometimes it would seem as if the more a heart was made capable of loving, the less it had to love; and poor Elsie, in passing from a mother's to a brother's guardianship, felt a change of spiritual temperature too keen. He was not a bad man, or incapable of benevolence when touched by the sight of want in anything of which he would himself have felt the privation; but he was so coarsely made, that only the purest animal necessities affected him, and a hard word, or unfeeling speech, could never have reached the quick of his nature, through the hide that inclosed it. Elsie, on the contrary, was excessively and painfully sensitive, as if her nature constantly | protended an invisible multitude of half-spiritual, half-nervous antennæ, which shrank and trembled in every current of air at all below their own temperature. The effect of this upon her behaviour was such that she was called odd; and the poor girl felt she was not like other people, yet could not help it. Her brother, too, laughed at her without the slightest idea of the pain he occasioned, or the remotest feeling of curiosity as to what the inward and consistent causes of the outward abnormal condition might be. Tenderness was the divine comforting she needed; and it was altogether absent from her brother's character and behaviour. Her neighbours looked on her with some interest, but they rather shunned than courted her acquaintance; especially after the return of certain nervous attacks to which she had been subject in childhood, and which were again brought on by the events I must relate. It is curious how certain diseases repel, by a kind of awe, the sympathies of the neighbours: as if, by the fact of being subject to them, the patient were removed into another realm of existence, from which, like the dead with the living, she can hold communion with those around her only partially, and with a mixture of dread pervading the intercourse. Thus some of the deepest, purest wells of spiritual life, are, like those in old castles, choked up by the decay of the outer walls. But what tended more than anything, perhaps, to keep up the painful unrest of her soul (for the beauty of her character was evident in the fact, that the irritation seldom reached her mind), was a circumstance at which, in its present connection, some of my readers will smile, and others feel a shuddercorresponding in kind to that of Elsie. Her brother was very fond of a rather small, but ferocious-looking bull-dog, which followed. close at his heels, wherever he went, with hanging head and slouching gait, never leaping or racing about like other dogs. When in the house, he always lay under his master's chair. He seemed to dislike Elsie, and she felt an unspeakable repugnance to him. Though she never mentioned her aversion, her brother easily saw it by the way in which she avoided the animal; and attributing it entirely to fearwhich indeed had a great share in the matterhe would cruelly aggravate it, by telling her stories of the fierce hardihood and relentless persistency of this kind of animal. He dared not yet further increase her terror by offering to set the creature upon her, because it was doubtful whether he might be able to restrain him; but the mental suffering which he occa |