THE PORTRAIT ON MY UNCLE'S SNUFF.

BOX.

AN ANECDOTE.

together.

WE were sitting over our wine, one winter's evening, about six or seven years ago, in the old oak parlor, at my uncle's house in Cheshire. We had drawn our chairs round the hearth, upon which some crackling faggots were blazing; and formed a semicircle of merry hearts, as well disposed to enjoy ourselves and our host's twenty-years-old port, as perhaps had ever met The chestnuts were hot, the claret (true Lafitte) was first uncorked, and breathed out its delicious odors, like a liquid nosegay. The Madeira, which had been tossed about in the Indian seas till it had grown as old as a nabob, had made one circuit of the company. In short, we had just settled ourselves comfortably, and were beginning to compliment the Colonel upon the flavor of his mutton, (his own killing,) when one of the party took notice of a portrait upon the family snuff-box, that was performing the usual course round the table.

'Tis the portrait of my grandfather, Walter Bethel,' said my uncle.

'It wears a clever, lively look,' observed the other. 'True,' replied my uncle. Nevertheless, in his youth, he was subject to great fluctuation of spirits; and indeed, at one time, was in a state of despondency. This, as will readily be imagined, was owing to love. Love! the Urchin! the God! the theme of poets! the scorn of philosophers! after conquering Cæsar and Antony, and converting popes and priests to the religion of the laity, suddenly stooped from his altitudes, and pounced upon the heart of Mr. Walter Bethel.'

'There is a family story,' said I, 'connected with the old gentleman's love-suit. You have once or twice threatened to tell me the particulars, if you recollect, and stopped only because there was a dearth of listenWhy not let us hear them now?'

ers.

The company seconded my suggestion as clamorously as could be desired; whereupon my uncle, after the due number of excuses expected on such occasions, detailed to us the following facts. I shall take the liberty of using Colonel Bethel's own words; so that the reader will imagine that he hears him speaking.

The parents of my grandfather,' he began,' were stout Hanoverians. Their professions of loyalty and Protestantism were not merely lip-deep matters. They were loyal and Protestant to the backbone, to the core of the heart, to wherever else the recess is, where integrity (or rather falsehood) is supposed to lurk. They drank the health of King George and the Protestant ascendency in endless bumpers of stern March beer. They propagated their principles among their friends; they whipped them into their children; they taught them to their servants. Little tottering

urchins, a foot high, who were learning "their duty to their neighbor," learned, at the same time, to hate a Jacobite with all their heart and with all their strength. Their first lesson, when they got into three syllables, was, "D-natn to the house of Stuart!" In other respects, their education was not conducted on a strict plan. In regard to my grandfather, who was in his later years (I am sorry to say) an occasional swearer,

- he always traced his infirmity to his having been encouraged at three years old to bawl forth, "C-e the Pretender!" He derived this small accomplishment from the stable-boy, and it was considered dangerous to attempt to extinguish it by reproof. "We may pull up the flower and the weed together," said his father: so my grandfather remained somewhat of a swearer.

'In the year 1746, his parents dwelt and had dwelt for some years near the small town of Calne, in Wiltshire. At present, this place is remarkable for little else than certain clothiers' manufactories, which supply fashionable tailors and ambitious beaux with the bluest and best of cloth. A little puzzling, brawling rivulet, called the Marden, intersects the town, and assists in turning various fulling or clothing mills; which, in requital for its services, bestow upon it large quantities of deep blue dye, putting to shame not only the skies above but even the brilliant water-color drawings of which young ladies, and their parents, are sometimes so justly proud. The inhabitants of Calne are quiet, industrious people. They talk politics but little, play at whist capitally, and have the best strong beer in the world. I do not know who is the parson, or the doctor, or the lord of the manor; but the lawyer (Mr.

A-n) is one of the best-hearted and clearest-headed men that even the law can boast of.

'Circumstances, which it is unnecessary to trouble you with at present, transferred our family from Wiltshire to Cheshire, about fifty summers ago. But in the year 1743,-4,-5, and 6, they dwelt on the banks (as the novelists say) of the Marden, within the suburbs of the town of Calne. At that day politics ran high throughout the country; and in Calne, they ran higher than in other places. The tailor, the butcher, the baker were afflicted with the epidemic. The less people had to do with the matter, the more furious they became. A leash of tailors, and a brace of bakers, (stitched and kneaded up together and called "The Club,") determined to settle the question in favor of the house of Hanover. A bunch of gardeners opposed them on the Stuart side. Each man was for "the right," and for that reason they all neglected their business, and in twelve months were supported at the expense of the parish. This they called suffering for their country. But the people on both sides suffered for their country, which was odd enough. Yet their country never knew it till this moment, when I unwillingly proclaimed its ingratitude. However, there were some more efficient adherents to the house of Stuart and Hanover, as will be supposed. Among these was a Mr. Campbell, a Scotchman by birth, an advocate by education, (he had retired from the bar on a small fortune,) and as completely cased in Jacobitism as the king of Denmark was in steel, namely, "from top to toe."

It is a little singular, that this gentleman should

become the intimate friend of loyal Mr. Bethel, a Protestant but so it was. Matters of opinion, to be sure, interfered occasionally with this intimacy, and political jars sometimes even threatened to shake the foundations of their friendship, but on the whole they went on pretty smoothly, and had a most sincere respect for each other.

'As Mr. Bethel, the Hanoverian, had a son, (my grandfather who was heir of his acres,) so Mr. Campbell the Jacobite had a daughter, as fair as Eve, and the sole stay and solace of his home. What was to be expected in such a case? My grandfather fell over head and ears in love. He was at the mature age of sixteen; so he declared himself, and was - refused! If the river Marden had been deep enough, the line of Bethel had perhaps been extinct. Fortunately, it is only a little rippling tream, and being thereabouts not more than four feet deep, was insufficient for the purposes of the most desperate of lovers. My grandfather probably felt this; for after a week's deliberation, he postponed his intended suicide to an indefinite period, or, as the parliamentary reporters say, "sine die." In the interim, he wisely set seriously to study, and after two years of unflinching reading, he was sent abroad to travel, and remained in foreign countries two or three years more. Some time after his departure Mr. Campbell was called suddenly to Scotland, upon some private business, relating, as he intimated, to a small patrimony which he possessed in that country.

'It was about this time (viz. in 1745) that the Chevalier, Charles Edward, made his unsuccessful attempt on the crown of England. I am not about to fatigue