"You have an excellent house here, Fos- | down!' I published, it is true-but what then? brook!" "Why, yes; the situation is good, and the distribution better; yet somehow or other, even in my perfection of a gentleman's room,' I always regret my Crusoe's cave in Gower Street. There I was never interrupted by importunate idlers; my books, ungilt and unprisoned behind the glittering wires of a library, came at my call; in short, I was able to read, and think, and write, as I liked." "And as others liked," said I, courteously. "My return to England has discovered to me an old friend in the most popular author of the day." The sin lay dormant between you and me and the press! I lived secure from criticism--not a reptile of a magazine deigned to tickle me with its puny antennæ. My wife, however angry, borrowed no sarcasms from the leading reviews-'I found not Jeffrey's satire on her lips-I slept the next night well-was freewas happy.' On the strength of my uncut pages I passed for a literary man in my own select circle; my family took me for a genius, and my servants for a conjuror;—but nowmy pages and myself are cut together." "My dear Dick!" said I soothingly, for he had really talked himself into a fit of irritation, "remember how often and how philoso to the award of criticism." Fosbrook literally shuddered at the word. "No more of that, an thou lovest me!" ex-phically you have declared yourself indifferent claimed he in a tone of acute sensibility. "Keep the name for the first dog you wish to see hanged." "Pho! pho!" said I, "the mere cant of affected modesty! You have won your laurels bravely; do not wear them like a coward. They were long, it is true, in putting forth their verdant honours; but now it would seem as 'Birnam wood were come to Dunsinane.' Fosbrook shook his head despondingly; and his whole air was so completely that of Matthews' admirable hypochondriac, that, spite of myself, I burst into a hearty fit of laughter. By good luck it proved contagious, and having roared and shouted "à qui mieux mieux," a happy tone of confidence was immediately established between us. "The fact is, my dear fellow," resumed Fosbrook, lowering his voice, "that I have led the life of a galley slave since I came to my title―." "Title?" "Of popular author! a title good for nothing but to expose one without redress to the insolence of every scribbler whose pen is the channel of his venom. No one presumes to insult a gentleman, or to tell a man that he is a fool; but a popular author is the property of the public-its goods, its chattels, its ox, its ass, its everything!'- -a culprit stuck up in the pillory of celebrity to be pelted by all the ragamuffins of the times." "And yet I can remember your eyes being upturned towards the Temple of Fame, as a devotee gazes upon the sanctuary." "Ay, ay; I looked at it through a telescope: "Tis distance lends enchantment to the view!' and the farther the better! I had not then assumed the foolscap uniform turned up with ink;' I had not donned the livery of the booksellers to fetch and carry sing song up and "There you have me on the hip. My wife's family, and all the generation of bores at that, my former end of the town, are constantly reminding me that it is idle to value public opinion, since I have often proved to them that the world is an overgrown booby; to which I can only reply, like Benedict, that When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live to be married.' When I wrote the public down an ass, I little expected to become a popular author!" "But after all," I observed, "these are mere trivial vexations compared with the glories of the daily incense burned upon your altars-of the solid gains achieved by your exertions." "I will show some of the daily incense," said Fosbrook, opening his pocket-book; “unfortunately it is made to be read first and burned afterwards. It is a paragraph from a morning paper." "Lege, Dick, lege." "We copy the following interesting intelligence from the Newcastle Mercury :— ‘Mr. Fosbrook the popular author. We are happy to be the first to congratulate our townsmen upon the near and dear claim we can boast upon the parentage of this celebrated man. Richard Toppletoe, formerly a master tailor in North Lane, but at the period of his decease a much respected member of our corporation, proves to have been his maternal grandfather. Many still surviving among us retain a lively remembrance of the full-buckled flaxen wig and brocaded waistcoat of old Toppletoe; and there can be little doubt that from this eccentric knight of the shears Mr. Fosbrook derives much of his originality of mind, his baptismal name, and private fortune.' “Very provoking, certainly," said I, perceiving that some comment was unavoidable. "Till I read that cursed paragraph," observed Fosbrook, "I had always believed and proclaimed myself to be of irreproachable descent, and the heir of an old Northumbrian family; had I never become a popular author I should have remained in ignorance that I had a Toppletoe for my mother! But listen to another of these precious bulletins of the state of my reputation. "Bow Street. Mr. Fosbrook.-Another instance of the irregularities of genius came this morning before the attention of the bench. The above popular author, returning from a deep carouse with some brother wits-some choice spirits, who appear to have been partial to proof spirits-chancing to unite the rampart valour of Othello with the disastrous plight of Cassio, fell into an outrageous affray with the guardians of the night ('Guardians! I wish they would make her a ward in Chancery!' ejaculated Dick)—and was at length victoriously lodged in the watch house. Our worthy chief magistrate considerately gave this delicate case a hearing in his private room; and after a few pertinent (qy. im ?) observations to the delinquent upon the respect due to public decency, even from the genus irritabile, he fined him five shillings, and dismissed him with costs; judging, probably, that Mr. Fosbrook had already received poetical justice in the shape of two black eyes." "Very provoking," said I again. "And did you pass the night in the watchhouse?" "Not I. I appeared before Sir Richard as a witness in favour of an Irish applewoman whom I had caught the parish beadle in the act of maltreating, by virtue of some Street Bill. Unfortunately, I was recognized by some dirty reporter, who doubled his morning's pay by compounding this scurrilous attack." "But of course you remonstrated with the editor?" "I did; and my very forbearing letter produced a second paragraph, headed 'Mr. Fosbrook. We are authorized by this gentleman to state that he did not appear before Sir Richard Birnie with two black eyes.' "Well, well!" said I, "these idle slanders, if they filch from you your good name, do not steal the trash from your purse. Think of the solid profits, my dear Dick." "I do, and with regret; for they are all gone. Every poor relation (Toppletoes in particular), and every literary acquaintance I had in the world, gave me the preference of their first application for a loan, on the second edition of my last work; nor does there exist a literary institution, or an establishment for the encouragement of the fine arts, for which my guineas have not been peremptorily claimed. Meanwhile, my law has long since left me in the lurch, and my father-in-law abhors me because I play shorts. He has persuaded my wife to send the boys to school lest I should undermine their morals, for the old gentleman holds that all modern authors are atheists." "But what is become of your orthodox friend, the Dean of -?" "We have not been on speaking terms these six months-he is persuaded he can detect my hand in the anatomization of his emancipation pamphlet in the new review." "And Lorimer, our college chum?" "Has basely deserted my cause; he goes about 'with his hand in his breeches' pocket, like a crocodile,' whispering that I have been puffed beyond my strength; that I have no stamina for the tug of war, and shall run away, à la Goderich, at the first shot. All my old friends affect to suppose that I have risen above them; and since I have been noticed by half a dozen rhyming lords, my wife's relations say I am grown fine, and have given over inviting me; while Sophia, as if in retribution, will never visit half a mile from Russell Square-the land of ancestors! She is gone there to-night." "Mrs. Fosbrook gone out!" I exclaimed. "Then come with me to the opera; we shall be in time for Brocard." "Willingly-I have a silver ticket." We rose from table; the butler was hastily summoned, and entered with a huge and portentous packet in either hand. Dick broke the seal of the largest and read aloud "Albemarle Street. "Dear Sir,-I beg to forward you the number of the Review, which appeared this day, and which contains some strictures on your new work. Permit me to say that I consider them highly illiberal, and that I have always thought the editor an envious little man.I have the honour to be, &c. &c. &c." "Don't read the article, my dear Dick. Pray don't. It will only make you bilious." "I will not," he replied, resolutely tossing it aside. "Martin-call a coach." "I beg your pardon, sir," replied the man, presenting the other pistol-packet I would say "Mr. Colburn's printer has been waiting impatiently these two hours. He says it is the 24th of the month." "The devil!" exclaimed the unhappy Fosbrook in dismay. "Well, my dear fellow, you must go and see Brocard without me; it is not the first time my patience has been 'put to the proof."" I left him alone with his glory; but sympathy forbade my attempting the opera. I went home to bed, where, thanks to Dick's deplorable destiny, or deplorable claret, I had an excruciating nightmare;-and the most appalling vision suggested by its influence was, that I had attained to the honours of a popular author!-New Monthly Magazine. THE LOVER REFUSED. [Sir Thomas Wyatt, born at Allington Castle, Kent, 1503; died at Sherborn, 11th October, 1542. He is called the elder to distinguish him from his son of the same name who was involved in the rebellion in the reign of Queen Mary. He was sometime a favourite of Henry VIII., but was imprisoned on account of his friendship for Anne Boleyn. "He is reported to have occasioned the Reformation by a joke, and to have planned the fall of Cardinal Wolsey by a seasonable story." His latter years were passed in rural enjoyments at Allington Castle.] The answer that you made to me, my dear, I have no wrong where I can claim no right, Yet none can claim (I say) by former grant Now good, then, call again that bitter word, CONTRARIETIES OF LOVE. I find no peace, and all my war is done; And nought I have, and all the world I season, I feed me in sorrow, and laugh in all my pain. SIR THOMAS WYATT. A TALE OF THE OLD GORBALS. [Alexander Whitelaw, born in Glasgow about 1798, died there in 1846. He was assistant to Dr. Robert Watt in the preparation of the Bibliotheca Britannica, and wrote a number of the lives in Chambers' Biographical Dictionary of Eminent Scotsmen. He edited the Casquet of Literary Gems and the Republic of Letterstwo admirable works which suggested the present compilation; The Book of Scottish Song-the most complete collection of Scottish songs yet published; and The Book of Scottish Ballads, which included the collections of Scott, Motherwell, Jamieson, and Peter Buchan. He was the author of St. Kentigern, a tale of the city of St. Mungo, and of many minor poems and prose sketches. Good taste and a sincere devotion to literature are apparent in his work; and he was amongst the first to recognize and to proclaim the genius of Wordsworth.] The old barony of Gorbals, which now forms an important suburb of Glasgow, was in former times celebrated for its manufactory of swords, harquebusses, and other implements of war. People who could not command the real Ferraras were accustomed to uphold the blades of the Gorbals, as being little inferior to them in temper and delicacy of edge; and its harquebusses or hand-guns were on all hands admitted to equal those of Ghent, Milan, or Paris. Dim shadows of this ancient renown may be traced down even to the present day. Families still exist who through a long line of ancestry have figured as gunsmiths, cutlers, or turners; and it is a remarkable fact, that till about the beginning of this century the only individuals in the west of Scotland who manufactured guns were to be found in this old barony. During the wars between England and Scotland, few places were busier or merrier than the Gorbals, or Gorbells as it was then called -a name perhaps derived in some way from corbells, a term used in fortification and architecture. But at no time had it ever presented such an appearance of business and bustle as when the Regent Murray, in the year 1568, was lying at Glasgow with his forces, and news arrived of the escape of Queen Mary from Lochleven Castle. Night and day the smithy's furnace belched forth its sparkling smoke, and the cutler's wheel found no pause to its gyrations. The Laird of Elphinston was at that period Baron of the Gorbals, and formed one of the confederated lords who had compelled Mary to renounce her crown, and nominated Murray to the regency during the minority of her infant son. His castle or rather tower (which the modern Goths of the Gorbals first The women, especially, who are ever strong in gentle pity, and who judge of the right and wrong of a cause merely as it affects their own feelings, began to wail for their poor young queen, and some of them hesitated not to use triumphant enemies. As party after party of the regent's army returned to the Gorbalssome of them wiping their bloody swords on their horses' manes- -they were saluted by such exclamations as these: converted into a police office and afterwards abandoned and dismantled) was situated in the heart of the village; and as it had a chapel attached to it, and numerous buildings belong ing to the ecclesiastics,' he was able to accommodate a large proportion of the regent's follow-the privilege of their tongues in attacking her ers. It was here, on the 12th of May, 1568, that the regent's army rendezvoused, and from this place it issued to meet and give battle to the queen's forces, who were, with their unfortunate lady, on their way to Dumbarton Castle. The queen's road from Hamilton to that stronghold passed through the village of Langside, a place not two miles south from the Gorbals, and there Murray pitched his camp, with the resolution of disputing the passage. The result is well known. The queen's army was defeated, and she herself-obliged to flee-sought shelter and protection in England, where, to the everlasting infamy of her cousin Elizabeth, she only found a prison, an axe, and a block. were seen. In Glasgow the sound of the cannon was distinctly heard, and from some of its elevations the movements even of the hostile armies Most of the people were of the reformed religion, and therefore in favour of the regent and his army; but still there were many hearts that sympathized with the cause of their young and beautiful queen, for, whatever wicked men may say, she had ever been gentle and generous to her people-no acts of oppression had stained her reign-and even in that which she held dearest-her religion -she had displayed more tolerance a thousand times than those who opposed her, and who boasted a purer faith. For two or three hours a dreadful anxiety prevailed as to the result of the contest, and rumours of every kind were afloat, till at first stragglers, and at length a portion of the regent's army, announced too truly that Mary Queen of Scotland was miserably defeated, and fleeing like a hunted deer before her savage subjects. Though many wished such a result, there was little rejoicing over it; for however the queen's cause might be disliked while her fortunes were doubtful, now that she was driven to the wall and overtaken by calamity, old prejudices gave way to compassion, and all her grace and generosity-her youth, her beauty, and her accomplishments-her kind looks, words, and actions to high and low alike, even when insulted by rude and uncivil tongues, were remembered in her favour. This place is still distinguished by the name of the Chapel Close. "Hech, sirs! hech, sirs! bonny wark ye've been at, nae doubt, and manly-chasing out o' the kingdom a poor bit lassie, that was just owre gude for ye—and a' to favour that bastard brither o' hers, wha might think shame to haud up his head in honest men's company, seeing the way he has used her! Gae wa', and sing psalms, ye ill-faured loons, now that your lirty day's darg's owre; for, after what ye have done, ye dinna deserve to look a bonny lassie in the face again!" Besides a sympathy in the fate of the queen, there were other causes at work to check any strong exultation over the victory. Many of the victors themselves had friends and relations in the queen's army, and now that the fervour of the combat was over a very natural interest arose regarding them. In this situation was Baron Elphinston, whose young son, Master Patrick as he was called, had, in the teeth of his father's will, espoused the cause of Queen Mary. Master Patrick was a universal favourite throughout the barony, being handsome, generous, brave, and accessible; and deep was the interest which all felt as to his probable fate. Rumours were abroad that he had fallen in the field, and some even went so far as to affirm, that they had seen him lying desperately wounded; but no certain or satisfactory intelligence could be gained respecting him, and several days passed over in this tantalizing state. It might be nearly a week after the battle, when the excitement it created had in some measure subsided, that a numerous and heterogeneous party were assembled in the large hall of Mrs. Ogilvie's hostelry, which was dignified by the sign of the Boar's Head, and which then formed the only house of public entertainment in the Gorbals. Many of the wounded had been carried there; and upon the numerous benches which graced the hall might be seen some lying with bandaged heads, or 2 The building of this ancient hostelry was taken down years ago, and a common place house erected in its stead. In the new building, there was a small tavern which retained the sign of the Boar's Head. freshly amputated limbs, among whom stalked a chirurgeon, or physician, inquiring into their different cases. Others, apparently unhurt, were formed into clusters, and enjoying themselves over their "mugs of nappy ale," in discussing the signs of the times, and the accidents of the day. In one corner sat a core of cutlers, -fellows of infinite dexterity in giving an edge to a sword—who, after the great exertions which the battle called forth, thought themselves entitled to no measured relaxation. They were reckless dogs, all-caring little for any cause-and dividing their time between violent exertion at their grinding wheels, and violent drinking at the Boar's Head, the last being by far the heaviest work of the two. In spite of invalids, or any other consideration, one of them was singing, with clenched fists, shut teeth, and gleaming eye, the following ditty, which received no attention from any but his own company, who cheered him on by such exclamations as "Well done, Ralph Munn! --Go on, my pretty fellow!" Three things that do make a man lean- Three things that do make a man fat-- (Burthen)-It's an auld sang, and a true sang, Never let man trust woman too lang! (Chorus)-Fal-lal-lillillilla, Fal-lal-lillillilla, &c. &c.1 It would be impossible to convey to the reader any conception of the maniacal fury with which the chorus of "Fal-lal-lillillilla" was received. The cutlers simultaneously rose, and, flinging up their arms to heaven, screamed it out in yells that drowned every other noise in the hostelry. But they were speedily checked by the remonstrances of the landlady. For shame, sirs! yelling at sic a rate, and your poor young mistress lying in a sick bed!" "What! is pretty Mistress Martha ailing?" said one of the cutlers; for Martha, the daughter of their mistress, who carried on the business on the death of their master, was a mighty favourite with the workmen. "Ailing? She has not had a hale hour ever since the battle-and it sets ye ill to be sitting there routing, as if there were na a sair head or a sair heart in the town." "Nay, landlady, we did not know anything was wrong and here we shall drink a bumper to pretty Martha's health; and if any one says she is not the prettiest as well as best 1 This was the favourite song of the last of the Gor bals cutlers. lady on both sides of the water, we shall hold his nose to the roughening stone." "Well, that's spoken like civil gentlemen," said the landlady. "And now I will be able to let myself be heard. Dr. Macclutch!" she exclaimed, at the top of her voice. "Where's the doctor? Ay, doctor, there's an express here for you. You're to gang and wait on the baron without delay. Poor gentleman! I doubt he's takin' his son's death to heart." The doctor-an officious, formal, good-natured man--was not a little gratified to find that he was in demand in such a high quarter. and particularly that the fact was made known to so many auditors. He buckled up a wound which he had been dressing, with little attention to the wry faces of his patient, and adjusting his cloak about him, proceeded with all decent dexterity to wait upon Baron Elphinston. The baron ushered him into one of his private apartments. "My son, doctor," said the baron-"poor Patrick-has at length been found. Some of my own knaves, whose hearts he had gained, have, it seems, been keeping him in hiding ever since the battle, for he was sorely wounded, and he instructed them not to disclose his situation. But he was yesterday seized with a giddy fever in consequence of his wounds, and his attendants became so alarmed as at length to lay the truth before me. I have seen him, doctor; but he is insensible to everything. Now, I have sent for you that you may attend him; but chiefly, as a trustworthy man, that you may have him conveyed to some more fitting and salubrious place than the hovel which he now occupies. He cannot be brought here without discovery, filled as the place now is by so many of the queen's enemies; and if he were taken, not even my influence could protect him from fine or imprisonment, or perhaps from death. Upon your fidelity, as I said, I rely, as well as upon your skill in treating him according to his need." "My lord," said the doctor, "nothing would more gratify me than to shelter and treat Master Patrick under my own poor roof. But since the combat at Langside my house has finding some of the queen's friends, who might been frequently searched, in the hope of therefore could not insure him safety with me: be driven to seek my skill in chirurgery. I but I bethink me of a worthy and charitable lady, who is furnished with all accommodations, and who would be proud to give him protection. May I mention the widow of good old Master Menzies, who made so much fame |