"Signor," replied the cavalier, "I respect your doubts. By a single word I could dispel them, but it is a secret that would be embarrassing to the possessor. It concerns the interest and safety of one-the most illustrious and unfortunate of Scottish Jacobites." "What, him!" exclaimed the Doctor. "I can say no more," replied the stranger. "Let us go,” said the Doctor, and they hurried toward the door; and, traveling by road and water, reached the palace. They proceeded through a long range of apartments, when they suddenly stopped, and the Doctor's mask was removed. He looked around on a splendid saloon, hung with crimson velvet, and blazing with mirrors which reached from the ceiling to the floor. At the farther extremity a pair of folding doors stood open, and showed the dim perspective of a long conservatory. The Doctor's guide rang a silver bell that stood upon a table, and a little page, richly dressed in scarlet, ran into the room, and spoke eagerly to him. The dark countenance of the cavalier glared suddenly, and, giving some hasty command to the page, said, as he quitted the saloon: "Signor Dottore, the most important part of your occasion is past; the lady whom you have unhappily been called upon to attend met with an alarming accident in her carriage but a short time before I found you in the church, and the unlucky absence of her physician leaves her entirely under your charge. Her accouchement is over, apparently, without any worse effect than exhaustion; but of that you will be the judge." They proceeded through a long range of apartments, and were met by a page, who spoke to the cavalier: 66 "Signor," said the latter to the Doctor, "they await you," and, preceded by the page, the Doctor was conducted through a splendid suite of apartments until he came to a small ante-room decorated with several portraits, and among them was one of the Duke of Perth, and another of King James VII., both of which the Doctor immediately recognized. The page crossed the room on his tip-toes, and gently opened a door at the opposite extremity, and as the Doctor passed in it closed silently behind him, and he found himself in a magnificent bedchamber. What took place here is an important part of the Doctor's own statement, and must be related with exactness. The still sultry light of a single taper shed a dim glimmer through the apartment and upon the curtains of a tall crimson bed that stood behind. But he had scarcely glanced around him when the rustle of drapery called his attention to the couch, and a lady stepped from the shadow, saluted him in English, and conducted him toward the bed. The curtains were almost closed; by the side of the bed stood a female attendant, holding an infant enveloped in a mantle, and as she retired the lady drew aside the curtain, and by the faint light he imperfectly distinguished the pale features of a delicate face, which lay, wan and languished, almost enveloped in the soft white pillow. The shadow of the curtains afforded but a faint trace of the countenance, but a single gleam of the taper glanced over the dark blue counterpane and across the slender arm and hand that lay upon the velvet, still and pale, and passive as an alabaster model. The lady addressed the patient a few words in German, at which she slowly raised her head, and, opening her large eyes, endeavored to lift her hand toward the Doctor. The latter placed his fingers upon her pulse, but they could scarcely feel the low intermittent throb. For several moments he vainly endeavored to count the vibrations, while the lady in waiting stood motionless beside him, her eyes fixed intently upon his face. "If you will give me leave," said the Doctor, endeavoring to suppress any indication of danger to which he felt sensible, "I will write a prescription, for which no time should be lost." The lady conducted him in silence to a writing-cabinet, upon which she placed a taper, and retired to the couch. In momentary reflection the Doctor glanced upon a toilet which stood beside him. The light of the taper reflected down upon a number of jewels, which lay loosely intermixed with the scent-bottles showing evident haste and confusion, and his surprise was great when he recognized a miniature of the unfortunate and exiled prince, Charles Edward. It was suspended from a rich diamond necklace, and represented the prince with the same look and in the same dress he had seen twenty-eight years before as he rode into the battle of Culloden. Overcome with the recollection, he gazed upon it until the features on the miniature swam away in a glimmer of tears. An approaching step aroused him, and, passing his hands hastily over his eyes, he began to write as the lady approached the toilet, and, as if looking for some object among the ornaments, placed herself between him and the table. She retired almost instantly, but when the Doctor again glanced toward the jewels the miniature was turned. Dr. Beaton, having completed the service. for which he had been brought to the palace, was sworn on the crucifix, "never to speak of what he had seen, heard, or thought that night secured the independence of Scotland, and established Bruce, the heroic ancestor of Prince Charles Edward, on the throne. Here still remains a fragment of the "bore-stone" in which the royal standard was placed. At Sir Hugh's Charles Edward met Miss Clementina Walkinshaw, a young lady for whom he formed a passionate attachment, and who in after life exercised an important influence over his actions. Miss Walkinshaw was a niece of Sir Hugh, and daughter of John Walkinshaw of Barrowfield, one of the old Scottish manorial barons, who was descended from the hereditary Foresters of the High Steward of Scotland in Renfrewshire. unless it should be in the service of his King-| where was fought the memorable battle that King Charles." He was required to leave Italy at once, and the following morning took a lingering farewell of the beautiful Saint Rosalie, and departed for the nearest sea-port. The third evening of his arrival, at about sunset, while waiting for an Italian vessel in which he intended to procure a passage to the shores of France, he took a walk along the beach some distance from the town. His attention was attracted to an English frigate lying near by. Her name was the Albion, and her commander was Commodore Allan. He seated himself, in deep thought, underneath the branches of a tree. Here he remained until the rising of the moon, when suddenly a horseman approached, followed by a close carriage. They passed within a very short distance of him, and his astonishment was great, when, as the moonlight fell through the trees upon the group, he recognized the figure of his mysterious guide from Saint Rosalie. The little party stopped full in the moonlight near the margin of the water, and the cavalier, having glanced around, blew a loud shrill whistle. The echo had scarcely died away along the cliff, when the dark shadow of a man-ofwar's galley shot from behind a reef of rocks at the western entrance of a small estuary, and was pulled to the spot where the vettura stood. The cavalier alighted, and, opening the door of the carriage, lifted down a lady, closely muffled in a white mantle. She bore an object in her arms, which she held with great solicitude. At the same time an officer, wearing double epaulets, leaped from the boat, and, making a brief but profound salute to the lady, conducted her toward the galley. The Doctor heard the faint cry of an infant, and distinguished the glisten of a little white mantle and cap as she laid her charge in the hands of her companion. The officer lifted her into the boat, and the cavalier redelivered to her the child, which she carefully folded in her cloak. After a brief word and a momentary grasping of the hand between the lady and the cavalier, the officer raised his hat, the oars fell into the water, and the galley glided out into the gloom of the gray tide. Before midnight the shadow of the frigate swung round in the moonshine, her sails filled to the breeze, and she bore off, slow and still and steady, toward the west. And here for the present I will leave the infant charge in the custody of the gallant commodore, and return to the land of the Gaels, at a period just previous to the last Stuart rising. A short time before the battle of Culloden, the Prince Charles Edward was a guest at the house of Sir Hugh Patterson of Bannockburn, | It was at that period of the year when the blithesome spring had shaken off the dull and dreary robes of a Scotch winter, and the young couple daily walked unattended through the lawns and glades with which the grounds and park of Sir Hugh were interspersed, oblivious of the rapidly passing hours, and undisturbed in their musings save by the flight of a frightened roe or timid hare, till twilight warned them to return. But these pleasures were not to be of long continuance, for one morning before dawn the trumpets of Prince Charlie's followers summoned him from the society of his love and the tranquillity of Bannockburn to the field of Mars. After the battle of Culloden, and the flight of the Prince to the Continent, his mysterious incognito alarmed the English government; and on his return to Flanders, from Prussia, Sweden, and Poland, where he had urged plans for the recovery of the crown, Miss Walkinshaw, whom the Prince had now almost forgotten, was sent to be a spy in his household. This was accomplished through the instrumentality of Clementina's sister, Catherine, who had been Woman of the Bed-chamber, and was, at the time, housekeeper to the Princess, mother of | George III., at Leicester House. Clementina, it was said, communicated, through her sister, all the affairs of the Prince to the English ministers. That the Prince had but little thought of Clementina since the battle of Culloden, appears from the fact that four years passed without there being any correspondence between them; and when Miss Walkinshaw went to join the Prince in Flanders, as soon as he received an intimation of her presence near him, instead of expressing any ardor for the meeting, he sent her word to retire to Paris, and there to await his arrival. They afterward returned together to Ghent, and took such nom de voyage as suited them. Their residence was for some time at Liege, where they lived as the Comte and Comtesse Johnson, Miss Walkinshaw giving her maiden name as Caroline Pit; for in most Continental countries, when the lady is of noble birth, the maiden name is usually added to that of her husband upon her visiting cards. In Liege, Clementina became the mother of a son who died in infancy, and in 1753 she gave birth to a daughter who was baptised as Caroline. The next month, after the baptism of Caroline, the Prince wrote a letter to Colonel Goring, the original draft of which, in the Prince's handwriting, is among the Stuart papers, telling him that "Clementina has behaved so unworthily that she has put me out of patience, and I discard her." But the power of woman, in that case, was greater than the will of man, and the separation did not take place. Catherine Walkinshaw came to be in high favor with the Hanoveran court and family; and the Duke of Cumberland and others, who, after the battle of Culloden, knowing of the liaison of her sister Clementina with Charles Edward, at Bannockburn House, had sternly urged Catherine's immediate dismissal, became at a later period her warmest friends. She was in fact one of the great favorites at St. James's and Windsor. The final separation between the Prince and Clementina did not take place until July, 1760. After the separation, Miss Walkinshaw continued to live at Paris under the name of Comtesse d'Albertoff, conferred upon her by the King of France. On the suppression of the convent where she resided, at the time of the French Revolution, she removed to Friburg in Switzerland, where she died in 1805. The Walkinshaw family insist that Charles Edward and Clementina were married at Ghent, but of this there is not sufficient evidence; and others deny the marriage, but claim that the present family of Stuart are descended from the Walkinshaw liaison. The Prince did not again see Clementina after the separation; but twenty-five years later, when he had separated from his wife, the Princess Louisa of Stolberg, he recalled his daughter Caroline, who continued to reside with him at Rome until his death. Caroline had been created Duchesse d'Albanie, and married to the Swedish Baron de Rowenstart, by whom she had a son. When the Duchesse d'Albanie went to live at the house of Charles Edward, her son, then a mere child, was given in charge of some old Highlanders who had followed the Prince. He was placed under a Gaelic tutor, and, with a great appearance of secrecy, was sent out of the country. In the Highlands, at a later period, Macdonald of Glendulochan had listened to stories about a certain mysterious stranger, who had arrived in a "great king's ship," and who had hired as a residence the "grand auld house of Dundarach." Macdonald, in conversation with a Highland herdsman by the name of Alaister, who had on several occasions seen the stranger, asked: "Does he wear the Highland dress?" "On ye never seed the like, except Glengarve," replied Alaister. "And what did you call him?" asked Macdonald. "The folk call him 'Iolair-dhearg' (the Red Eagle) for his red tartan and the look o's ee, which was never in the head o' man nor bird but the eagle and Prince Charlie. But Muster Robison, the post-mister in Port Michael, says his name is Captain Allan, and that he is son o' ane grand admiral in the suthe enew; but I dinna think it, for the auld French servant ca's him whiles, 'munsenur' and 'halts-rile' (altesse royale), and other names that I canna mind.” The "Iolair-dhearg" was introduced to an aged Highlander, who mistook him for the bonnie Charlie himself, and told him that the last time he saw him was on the morning of Culloden. In the year 1790, the "Iolair-dhearg," who had come to be known as Thomas Allan, and at a later day as James Stuart Allan, rescued Katharine Manning, a beautiful English lady, from the hands of some smugglers, who had captured the vessel in which she had taken passage for the Highlands. James Stuart was at this time almost always accompanied by the Chevalier Craeme, the same person who conducted Doctor Beaton from the church of Saint Rosalie to the chamber of the Prince, and who was the latter's chamberlain. The Chevalier often addressed James Stuart as "my Prince," and with Admiral Allan endeavored to prevent him from injuring the prospects of his house by such a mésalliance as they considered his union with Katharine Manning would be, and his royal birth was spoken of without concealment. But this youth of lion heart refused to smother his passion for the lady he had rescued, and they were finally married on the second day of October, 1792. James Stuart left two sonsJohn Sobieski and Charles Edward. The former is the author, under the nom de plume of John Hay Allan, of a number of pretty poems. In the "Bridal of Coälchairn" there is an intimation that the author is descended from the Stuarts: "And, sooth, there was a time, howe'er 'tis now, O'er thy wide realm they held the regal sway; The blood which yet beneath this breast doth flow Was from thy Stuarts drawn in olden day." Charles Edward Stuart, on the ninth day of October, 1822, married Ann, daughter of the Right Honorable John Beresford, then Member of Parliament for Waterford. This Charles Edward leaves surviving him another Charles Edward (who in 1874 married Lady Alice Hay), THE RIVAL CITIES. | Nowadays in Boston and New York a fre- | ished manners. The corporations of Boston, quent topic for the chit-chat of breakfast ta- her municipal government, and her society at bles, evening receptions, and tête-à-têtes, is large, are all permeated and vivified by ideals whether the balance of power in literature and as heretofore. The intellectual class still conart is really shifting from the old Puritan city trols and dominates, and gives solidity and to the great metropolis at the mouth of the unity to the corporate life of the city. And in Hudson. The subject is a delicate one, and the special matter of the cultivation of decorahardly capable of dispassionate treatment, ex- tive and ideal art, Boston is now more enthusicept by one who is a native of neither city. astic and determined than ever. Indeed, the In Boston the subject is handled with gloves by conditions for producing fine and enduring those who know the facts. The bourgeois, who work are better there than in any other part of is ignorant of the facts, but dimly feels that the country. something is wrong, scouts at the very idea of a shifting of power, with that provincial arrogance and egotism that everywhere distinguish the cockney. Yet, after all, not much that is great or worldstimulating is being produced nowadays in Eastern Massachusetts. Boston is not now making national opinion as in the anti-slavery and Now, nobody is going to be injured by firmly transcendental days. She is not, as then, thinkfacing the true logic of the situation. The truth ing for the world, at least not to any great exnever hurts anybody in the end. Let us have text. Her great statesmen and her great genthis matter cleared up. Let each city know uises are nearly all either dead or living in the its cue-clearly understand the part it is to play retirement of old age. Her literature, while in the future development of the national life. scholarly and recherché, is largely colored by To say that the two cities are not and never the over-strained conceits and frigid artificialihave been alike, either in outward complexion ties of the drawing-room; in a word, is not fused or inner spirit, is only to utter a truism. What and animated by enthusiastic purpose; is too the Germans call the trieb of the two cities is timid, and hollow, and bloodless. About the different, and is so by the inexorable necessity only really intense intellectual enthusiasm to of circumstances. Until latterly, New York, be found in Boston, outside of business circles, forming the eastern gateway of the continent, is in three or four pulpits, which are still anihas been so overwhelmed and submerged by mated by the old Puritan traditions and feelthe rushing currents of commerce as to make ings-the old ethical propagandist spirit, which it impossible for the literary interest to more (as history) is the glory of Boston. Something than maintain a precarious and doubtful foot- is evidently the matter. We shall see presently hold in such out-of-the-way nooks and corners what it is. But we may first look at the literas it could possess itself of. Thus, New York ary and art status of New York City and briefly has been distinctively commercial, while Bos- review the evidences of the (at least temporary) ton has always been distinctively intellectual. literary hegemony of that city, after which we But a change has been taking place within the may consider the rationale of the whole matlast decade. New York has been striding rap- ter. The census of 1870 shows that the printidly forward in respect of art culture, book- ing and publishing business of New York is publishing, engraving, and the cultivation of just double that of Boston. The value of the pure literature, while her New England rival books manufactured is not much less in Boston has been advancing much more slowly in these than in New York. But not much reliance is to respects. Boston, it is true, is still distinctively be placed on these statistics, as General Walker the city of culture, of intellectuality. We have admits, owing to the almost insuperable diffithere still the ancien régime of courtly and pol-culty in getting publishers, as well as all other manufacturers, to state how much capital they | bracing air, the vigorous stock, and the poetic have actually employed in business. But statistics are not needed. The facts are patent to everybody. Most of the great magazines of the country are published in New York City. landscape of Eastern Massachusetts make it certain that she will do so when the time comes. The second grand reason, doubtless, why Boston is now leading a rather lethargic The daily newspapers of New York everyexistence is that she has not the cosmopolitan body knows to be the most powerful in the breeze, as it may be called. Anybody who has country. Literati of all sorts are much better been in New York knows what that means. It paid in New York than they are in Boston. is a very simoom, a furnace heat, this cosmoPainting, the opera, the drama, are all in proc-politan glow, for the melting away of antiquated ess of vigorous growth. Engraving, as re- superstitions and the brazen cerements of social spects technique, or the mechanical process, mummydom. There is no use in denying it— has reached a degree of excellence which places Boston is getting just the least bit provincial, it on an equality with the finest work of Europe. compared with New York. A flourishing comTwo or three great Boston publishing houses merce, great wealth, and cosmopolitan life do are still doing a thriving trade in publishing a great deal even for literature. History proves editions of the standard New England classics it. Athens was great, divinely great; but so (the copyrights of which they own); but the was Rome. Athens had a good deal of money, great bulk of legal, ecclesiastical, medical, philo- but Rome has always had a vaster cosmopolisophical, and miscellaneous books is published tanism and greater wealth, both in the days of in New York City. In pure literature New the empire (when all her great literature was York has not so many illustrious names as Bos- produced) and in the days of Leo X., Raphael, ton; but still she has a large and respectable and Angelo. Edinburgh has had some wealth, list. Upon it are four or five of our classic and produced a few great men. But London writers. Such are the facts respecting the in- has had more wealth, got by her world-comtellectual status of New York. We may now merce; and her littérateurs, scholars, and statesseek to discover the causes of this change of men rule the world. It is a melancholy truth, rôles of the two cities, and point out the hidden which those who have lived in Boston know too forces that have been at work in each. Let us well, that the city (including Cambridge) is begin with Boston. Assuming at once that Bos- suppressing a good deal of genius through ton has produced the largest number of great sheer lack of endowments and opportunities for literary geniuses and great reformers, and al- the pursuit of higher culture. Boston has a most as many great statesmen as the South, we good deal of wealth, but it is hoarded up too have to inquire why she no longer produces carefully. Extreme caution and timidity, exthem. treme conservatism, are the faults of character in Boston men that are injuring the city's business prosperity, as well as its literary life. This caution, this timidity, this close-fistedness, is that once excusable Puritan virtue which, now that the broadening national life has burst the bounds of New England, and is seeking its center further west, reveals itself to be a vice-a virtue that "o'erleaps itself and falls on the other." Boston must venture more; must adopt a bolder and more generous commercial policy. She must have more railways to the West, and cease to hamper those she has by meddlesome legislation, which, in forbidding the natural principle of competition to have free play by fixing arbitrarily the per cent. that railways may earn, thereby disheartens and renders them careless of the interests of the public, and in every way retards the free and spontaneous development of the native resources of the State. When Boston determines to have three or four wellmanaged, instead of two poorly managed, grand trunk lines to the West; when she comes to see that she cannot afford to let New York attract so much of the raw and manufactured products It would seem that there are two fundamental reasons-the lack of the inspiration that comes from a great cause, and the absence of what may be called the cosmopolitan breeze. Boston has not now distinctly presented to her a great cause to which she can devote her energies. The days of transcendentalism are numbered, and the momentum derived from the anti-slavery movement has now ceased to be an impelling force. If Boston has not a great reform on hand, she is nothing. It is aut Cæsar aut nullus with her. It takes a great deal to heat up to the fusing point the cold and massive intellectuality of the pure-blooded Yankee. He must drink his whisky raw, or he is not affected. This, then, is one of the reasons why with Boston it is now the diastole of the intellectual pulsations; why on her particular shore it happens to be now ebb tide. The proccessess of life are rhythmic-the intellectual and social no less than the physical. There is harvesting time and sowing time, renascence and decadence. Of course, there are no intrinsic reasons why Boston shall not produce more great geniuses. On the contrary, the |