and as you well remark, she has a heavy tocher of her own-a pretty penny, believe me." "Good Master John Knox," interrupted the baron, "has been exerting himself stoutly with the regent to procure pardons for many of the queen's friends. By his intercession the Hamiltons have been reprieved from the death of traitors, and to his kindness I owe a manumission which I received yesterday of Patrick's attainder, in consideration, as it stated, of his youth and of his father's services in the right cause. Partick is therefore now at liberty; and I have been thinking that, in the event of his marriage, he might take possession of the small estate of Polmadie, which his mother by will has left him. As to the young lady's mother, I have not yet consulted with her on the matter, but I doubt she will be very unwilling to part with her daughter, seeing that none other of the family remains. "She will indeed be very lonely," said the doctor, "and of that I have been led to speak with her very frequently in private, when I observed the attachment of Master Patrick and Mrs. Martha." "So-so," said the baron, smiling, "you have been already condoling with the widow on the subject, and you could not do less surely, doctor, than offer to cherish and comfort her in her apprehended loneliness, by taking her to wife." "I will not deny, my lord, that some such understanding may exist between us, said the doctor, blushing as deeply as a bachelor of fifty could blush. "Then all is well, and we shall make two weddings of it at once, my old buck!" said the baron, poking the sides of the confused doctor with humorous glee. The marriages, however, did not take place at the same time. The young master and the fair Martha were first espoused, and great was the rejoicing of the whole barony; for, in addition to the usual excitement of a marriage, the people were delighted at the restoration of their favourite, whom they had accounted lost, and at his union with one of their own native children. But great as was the rejoicing on this occasion, it did not equal the uproar which took place six weeks afterwards, when worthy Dr. Macclutch was united to widow Menzies. Every fire-arm was then in requisition to welcome the auspicious morn; mummeries, in which the cutlers played a distinguished part, were enacted on the streets; and the walls of the Boar's Head shook with dancing and revelry for three successive nights. WELL AND ILL WORKING. [Nicholas Grimoald or Grimbold, died about 1563, the second English poet after Surrey who wrote in blank verse. He was the author of a Latin tragedy, Joka the Baptist, and of numerous translations from the Greek and Latin poets.] In working well, if travail you sustain, DEATH OF SOCRATES. [Plato, an Athenian, born B.C. 429; died B.C. 347. He was a disciple of Socrates, and after an adventurous career, serving some time as a slave, he settled at Athens. The following is from an old translation of the Phado.] Having talked awhile, he arose, and went into an inner room to wash himself: and Crito following him, enjoined us to stay and expect his return. We therefore expected, discoursing among ourselves of the things that had been commemorated by him, and conferring our judgments concerning them. And we frequently spake of the calamity that seemed to impend on us by his death: concluding it would certainly come to pass, that, as sons deprived of their father, so should we disconsolately spend the remainder of our life. After he had been washed, and his children were brought to him (for he had two sons very young, and a third, almost a youth), and his wives also were come, he spake to them before Crito, and gave them his last commands: so he gave order to his wives and children to retire. Then he came back to us. By this time the day had declined almost to the setting of the sun; for he had stayed long in the room where he washed himself. Which done, he returned, and sate to repose himself, not speaking much after that. Then came the Minister of the Eleven, the executioner; and addressing himself to him, "I do not believe, Socrates," said he, "that I shall reprehend that in you which I am wont to reprehend in others; that they are angry with me, and curse me, when by command of the magistrates (whom I am by my office obliged to obey) I come and give notice to them that they must now drink the poison; but I know you to be at all times, and chiefly at this, a man both generous and most mild and civil, and the best of all men that ever came into this place, so that I may be assured that you will not be displeased with me, but (you know the authors) with them rather. Now therefore (for you know what message I come to bring), farewell, and endeavour to suffer as patiently and calmly as you can what cannot be avoided:" then breaking forth into tears, he departed. And Socrates converting his eyes upon him, "And farewell thou too," saith he: "we will perform all things." Then turning to us again, "How civil this man is," saith he; "all this time of my imprisonment he came to me willingly, and sometimes talked with me respectfully, and hath been the best of all that belong to the prison; and now how generously doth he weep for me! But, Crito, let us spare him, and let some other bring hither the deadly draught, if it be already bruised; if not, let him bruise it." Then said Crito, "I think the sun shines upon the tops of the mountains, and is not yet quite gone down;1 and I have seen some delay the drinking of the poison much longer: nay more, after notice had been given them that they ought to despatch, they have supped, and drank largely too, and talked a good while with their friends; be not then so hasty; you have yet time enough." "Those men of whom you speak, Crito," saith he, "did well; for they thought they gained so much more of life; but I will not follow their example, for I conceive I shall gain nothing by deferring my draught till it be later in the night; unless it be to expose myself to be derided for being desirous, out of too great love of life, to prolong the short remainder of it. But well, get the poison prepared quickly, and do nothing else till that be despatched.' Crito hearing this, beckoned to a boy that was present; and the boy going forth, and employing himself a while in bruising the poison, returned with him who was to give it, and who brought it ready bruised in a cup: upon whom Socrates casting his eye, "Be it so, good man," said he: "tell me (for thou art well skilled in these matters), what is to be done?" 1 By the Athenian law no man was to be put to death until after sunset, lest the sun, for which they had a singular veneration, might be displeased at the sight. "Nothing," saith he, "but after you have drank, to walk, until a heaviness comes upon your legs and thighs, and then to sit and this you shall do.” And with that he held forth the cup to Socrates, which he readily receiving, and being perfectly sedate, "O Echecrates," without trembling, without change either in the colour or in the air of his face, but with the same aspect, and countenance intent and stern (as was usual to him), looking upon the man: "what sayest thou," saith he, " may not a man offer some of this liquor in sacrifice?" "We have bruised but so much, Socrates," saith he, "as we thought would be sufficient." "I understand you," saith he: "but yet it is both lawful and our duty to pray to the gods, that our transmigration from hence to them may be happy and fortunate." Having spoke these words, and remained silent [for a minute or two], he easily and expeditely drank all that was in the cup. Then many of us endeavoured what we could to contain our tears, but when we beheld him drinking the poison, and immediately after, no man was able longer to refrain from weeping: and while I put force upon myself to suppress my tears, they flowed down my cheeks drop after drop. So, covering my face, I wept in secret: deploring not his, but my own hard fortune, in the loss of so great a friend and so near a kinsman. Crito, no longer able to contend with his grief, and to forbid his tears, rose up before me. And Apollodorus first breaking forth into showers of tears, and then into cries, howlings, and lamentations, left no man from whom he extorted not tears in abundance; Socrates himself only excepted: who said, 66 But What do ye, my friends? truly I sent away the women for no other reason but lest they should in this kind offend. For I have heard, that we ought to die with good men's gratulation: but re-compose yourselves, and resume your courage and resolution." Hearing this, we blushed with shame, and suppressed our tears. But when he had walked awhile, and told us that his thighs were grown heavy and stupid; he lay down upon his back; for so he who had given him the poison had directed him to do. Who a little time after, returns, and feeling him, looked upon his legs and feet: then pinching his foot vehemently, he asked him if he felt it? and when he said no, he again pinched his legs; and turning to us, told us, that now Socrates was stiff with cold: and touching him, said he would die so soon as the poison came up to his heart; for the parts about his heart were already grown stiff. Then Socrates, putting aside the garment wherewith he was covered; "We owe," saith he, "a cock to Æsculapius: but do ye pay him, and neglect not to do it." . And these were his last words. "It shall be done," saith Crito: "but see if you have any other command for us." To whom he gave no answer: but soon after fainting, he moved himself often [as in suffering convulsions]. Then the servant uncovered him and his eyes stood wide open; which Crito perceiving, he closed both his mouth and his eyes. This, Echecrates, was the end of our friend and familiar, a man, as we in truth affirm, of all whom we have by use and experience known, the wisest and most just. WINTER. [Thomas Sackville, born at Buckhurst, Withiam, Sussex, 1527; died at Whitehall, 19th April, 1608. Statesman and poet. He became the first Lord Buckhurst and Earl of Dorset, Lord High Treasurer, Chancellor of the University of Oxford, and author of the first genuine English tragedy-Ferrex and Porrex, afterwards called Gorboduc, and acted before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall by students of the Inner Temple. As a poet he is best known as the originator of the Mirror for Magistrates, in which all the illustrious but unfortunate characters of English history were to pass in review before the poet, who, conducted by Sorrow, descends like Dante into hell. For this work Sackville wrote the Induction and one legend, which is the life of Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. The following stanzas are from the Induction.] The wrathful winter 'proaching on a pace, With chilling cold had pierc'd the tender green: The soil that erst so seemly was to seen And sweet fresh flowers (where with the summer's queen Hawthorn had lost his motley livery, 1 This work supplied Shakspeare and other dramatists with many scenes and suggestions. And sorrowing I to see the summer flowers, The sturdy trees so shattered with the showers, It taught me well all earthly things be born LITTLE TOMMY TUCKER. E. S. Phelps, of Boston, who wrote numerous successful works for the young. Miss Phelps has written many short tales for the principal American magazines, and several novels. Her most popular works are: The Gates Ajar: Hedged In; and Men, Women, and Ghosts, from which we quote (London: Sampson Low, Marston & Co.)] [Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, daughter of the late Mrs. There were but three persons in the car; a merchant, deep in the income list of the Traveller, an old lady with two bandboxes, a man in the corner with his hat pulled over his eyes. Tommy opened the door, peeped in, hesitated, looked into another car, came back, gave his little fiddle a shove on his shoulder, and walked in. "Hi! Little Tommy Tucker Plays for his supper," shouted the young exquisite lounging on the platform in tan-coloured coat and lavender kid gloves. "O Kids, you're there, are you? Well, I'd rather play for it than loaf for it, I had," said Tommy, stoutly. The merchant shot a careless glance over the top of his paper at the sound of this petit dialogue, and the old lady smiled benignly: the man in the corner neither looked nor smiled. Nobody would have thought, to look at that man in the corner, that he was at that very moment deserting a wife and five children. Yet that is precisely what he was doing. A villain? O no, that is not the word. A brute? Not by any means. A man, weak, unfortunate, discouraged, and selfish, as weak, unfortunate, and discouraged people are apt to be; that was the amount of it. His panoramas never paid him for the use of his halls. travelling tin-type saloon had trundled him into a sheriff's hands. His petroleum specu His lations had crashed like a bubble. His black and gold sign, F. Harmon, Photographer, had swung now for nearly a year over the dentist's rooms, and he had had the patronage of precisely six old women and three babies. He had drifted to the theatre in the evenings, he did not care now to remember how many times -the fellows asked him, and it made him forget his troubles; the next morning his empty purse would gape at him, and Annie's mouth would quiver. A man must have his glass too, on Sundays, and-well, perhaps a little oftener. He had not always been fit to go to work after it; and Annie's mouth would quiver. It will be seen at once that it was exceedingly hard on a man that his wife's mouth should quiver. "Confound it! Why couldn't she scold or cry? These still women aggravated a fellow beyond reason." Well, then the children had been sick; measles, whooping-cough, scarlatina, mumps, he was sure he did not know what not; every one of them from the baby up. There was medicine, and there were doctor's bills, and there was sitting up with them at night-their mother usually did that. Then she must needs pale down herself, like a poorly-finished photograph; all her colour and roundness and sparkle gone; and if ever a man liked to have a pretty wife about it was he. Moreover she had a cough, and her shoulders had grown round, stooping so much over the heavy baby, and her breath came short, and she had a way of being tired. Then she never stirred out of the house he found out about that one day; she had no bonnet, and her shawl had been cut up into blankets for the crib. The children had stopped going to school. They could not buy the new arithmetic," their mother said, half under her breath. Yesterday there was nothing for dinner but Johnny-cake, nor a large one at that. To-morrow the saloon rents were due. Annie talked about pawning one of the bureaus. Annie had had great purple rings under her eyes for six weeks. 66 went westward with him, and the silk dress never turned up, why, she would forget him, and be better off, and that would be the end of it. So here he was, ticketed and started, fairly bound for Colorado, sitting with his hat over his eyes, and thinking about it. "Hm-m. Asleep," pronounced Tommy, with his keen glance into the corner. "Guess I'll wake him up." He laid his cheek down on his little fiddleyou don't know how Tommy loved that little fiddle, and struck up a gay, rollicking tune"I care for nobody and nobody cares for me." The man in the corner sat quite still. When it was over he shrugged his shoulders. When folks are asleep they don't hist their shoulders, not as a general thing," observed Tommy. "We'll try another." Tommy tried another. Nobody knows what possessed the little fellow, the little fellow himself least of all; but he tried this:— "We've lived and loved together, It was a new tune, and he wanted practice, The train jarred and started slowly; the gloved exquisite, waiting hackmen, baggagemasters, coffee-counter, and station walls slid back; engine-house and prison towers, and labyrinths of tracks slipped by; lumber and shipping took their place, with clear spaces between, where sea and sky shone through. The speed of the train increased with a sickening sway; old wharves shot past, with the green water sucking at their piers; the city shifted by and out of sight. "We've lived and loved together," "We've lived and loved". He would not bear the purple rings and quivering mouth any longer. He hated the played Tommy in a little plaintive wail, sight of her, for the sight stung him. He hated the corn-cake and the untaught children. He hated the whole dreary, dragging, needy home. The ruin of it dogged him like a ghost, and he should be the ruin of it as long as he stayed in it. Once fairly rid of him, his scolding and drinking, his wasting and failing, Annie would send the children to work, and find ways to live. She had energy and invention, a plenty of it in her young, fresh days, before he came across her life to drag her down. Perhaps he should make a golden fortune, and come back to her some summer day with a silk dress and servants, and make it all up; in theory this was about what he expected to do. But if his ill-luck "Confound the boy!" Harmon pushed up his hat with a jerk, and looked out of the window. The night was coming on. A dull sunset lay low on the water, burning like a balefire through the snaky trail of smoke that went writhing past the car windows. Against lonely signal-houses and little deserted beaches the water was plashing drearily, and playing monotonous basses to Tommy's wail:— "Through many changing years, It was a nuisance this music in the cars. Why far behind now. He wondered how far. He pushed up the window fiercely, venting the passion of the music on the first thing that came in his way, and thrust his head out to look back. Through the undulating smoke, out in the pale glimmer from the sky, he could see a low, red tongue of land, covered with the twinkle of lighted homes. Somewhere there, in among the quivering warmth, was oneWhat was that boy about now? Not "Home, sweet home?" But that was what Tommy was about. Now this fiddle of Tommy's may have had a crack or so in it, and I cannot assert that Tommy never struck a false note; but the man in the corner was not fastidious as a musical critic; the sickly light was flickering through the car, the quiver on the red flats was quite out of sight, the train was shrieking away into the west-the baleful, lonely west-which was dying fast now out there upon the sea, and it is a fact that his hat went slowly down over his face again, and that his face went slowly down upon his arm. There, in the lighted home out upon the flats, that had drifted by for ever, she sat waiting now. It was about time for him to be in to supper; she was beginning to wonder a little where he was; she was keeping the coffee hot, and telling the children not to touch their father's pickles; she had set the table and drawn the chairs; his pipe lay filled for him upon the shelf over the stove. Her face in the light was worn and white-the dark rings very dark; she was trying to hush the boys, teasing for their supper; begging them to wait a few minutes, only a few minutes, he would surely be here then. She would put the baby down presently, and stand at the window with her hands-Annie's hands once were not so thin -raised to shut out the light-watching, watching. table would stand untouched, with his chair in its place; still she would go to the window, and stand watching, watching. Oh, the long night that she must stand watching, and the | days, and the years! "Sweet, sweet home," played Tommy. By and by there was no more of "Sweet Home." "How about that cove with his head lopped down on his arms?" speculated Tommy, with a business-like air. He had only stirred once, then put his face down again. But he was awake, awake in every nerve; and listening, to the very curve of his fingers. Tommy knew that; it being part of his trade to learn how to use his eyes. The sweet, loyal passion of the music-it would take worse playing than Tommy's to drive the sweet, loyal passion out of Annie Laurie-grew above the din of the train' "Twas there that Annie Laurie She used to sing that, the man was thinking -this other Annie of his own. Why, she had been his own, and he had loved her once. How he had loved her! Yes, she used to sing that when he went to see her on Sunday nights, bepretty days. Annie used to be very pretty. fore they were married-in her pink, plump, Gave me her promise true," hummed the little fiddle. "That's a fact," said poor Annie's husband, jerking the words out under his hat, "and kept it too, she did." Ah, how Annie had kept it! The whole dark picture of her married years the days of work and pain, the nights of watching, the patient voice, the quivering mouth, the tact and the planning and the trust for to-morrow, the love that had borne all things, believed all things, hoped all things, uncomplaining— rose into outline to tell him how she had kept it. "Her face it is the fairest suggested the little fiddle. That it should be darkened for ever, the sweet face! and that he should do it-he, sitting here, with his ticket bought, bound for Colorado. "And ne'er forget will I," murmured the little fiddle. He would have knocked the man down who The children would eat their supper; the had told him twenty years ago that he ever |