complying with your request, that, from the narrative connected with the lowly resting-place by the rock, may be established this rule of conduct, That our best virtues, when not regulated by the sober dictates of practical duty, become no less dangerous to our peace than their opposite vices.'

Basso desir non è ch'ivi si senta;

Ma d'onor, di virtute.

Giacomo di Sannaro, the only son of an eminent artist, after distinguishing himself above all his youthful companions in the schools of Girgenti, his native city, entered, in his 18th year, the University of Palermo. Here he quickly obtained a like superiority as in the initiatory studies. Attending the same classes, and of equal age, the young Pietro di Novelli alone showed himself a worthy competitor for the honours of genius. This rivalry, however, was not only without enmity, but became a bond of union between these two individuals, whom, though they came from a near neighbourhood, circumstances had hitherto kept apart. Pietro was the nephew, and had previously been educated as the presumptive heir of his uncle, the Count di Novelli, whose residence lay at a short distance from Girgenti. The in-turning to Palermo no more. "Not return to the unitimacy which existed between Sannaro and Novelli, as rival and distinguished students, was cemented into the most cordial friendship, in consequence of the generous intrepidity of the former in bearing to land the exhausted Novelli, when their pleasure-skiff had been upset on the dangerous reefs of Monte Pellegrino, which overlooks the Bay of Palermo.

Henceforth the two youths were inseparable in their studies, and in such pleasurable relaxations as were strictly within the means and leisure of Sannaro. He had too much judgment not to appreciate their different resources and prospects, too keen a sense of honour to incur an obligation, and too high a sense of duty to urge unjust claims on paternal aid. This manly and upright conduct served only to elevate Sannaro more highly in Novelli's esteem, and theirs furnished a rare instance of friendship between unequals in fortune, without sycophancy on the one hand, or dangerous example on the other. Four years thus rolled rapidly away. Sannaro sternly giving himself to exertion, like one who knows that he must owe, and is determined to owe, all to his own endeavours alone-Novelli, gay, fond of pleasure, yet stirred by honourable ambition of that literary distinction, of which he was otherwise independent. In another year, Giacomo, with the highest academical honours, would gain also the first vacant Salario, corresponding to our Fellowship, except that it is attached to certain professional studies, and thus enter upon the real business of life with independent means of success. Under these circumstances, he beheld himself summoned away by the alarming illness of his father. Novelli, who was to have left the University in a few weeks, being called home by a fond uncle, resolved to "anticipate terms," and accompany his friend. They separated only within sight of their respective homes-the one, agreeably to surprise by his early arrival-the other, to receive the last blessing of a dying parent.

Could external consolation have been ministered under the immediate pressure of such a loss, Sannaro would have found comfort in the respect shown by his fellowcitizens, and in the unshaken attachment of his friend, from whom not a day passed without a visit. A source of tender and unalloyed satisfaction, however, he enjoyed in the society of an only sister, whom he had left little more than an amiable child, but whom he now recovered, beautiful and accomplished, in the dawn of womanhood. Francesca, to beauty and elegance, united those intellectual attainments, which refine admiration into respect, while an exquisite and gentle modesty breathed over her whole character that sacred tenderness which exalts respect into a more ardent, yet not less holy sentiment. In the language of her own favourite bard L'aer percossa da' suoi dolci rai S' infiamma d' onestate

It can hardly detract from the friendship of Novelli, that he found in the conversation of the excellent Francesca, an additional motive for visiting her brother in their common affliction. Meanwhile, it was but too evident that the grief of the latter rather increased than diminished with time. Novelli, rightly conjecturing that something more than his recent loss preyed upon the mind of his friend, pressed him to remove for a few days to his uncle's seat, and there wrung from him the secret of his despondency. The elder Sannaro had lived with a degree of splendour suited to his high talents, and supported by an income, which, though large, fell with himself. The consequence had been, that, on his death, there remained only a small reversion, barely sufficient to maintain his wife and daughter in a frugal independence. His son possessed too noble a spirit to think of diminishing or even of risking this little fund in the venture of his own fortunes, and had resolved on reversity!" exclaimed his friend—“ and with such prospects?"" No, I am now considering how I may soonest attain to some useful employment"-" And that will be," interrupted Novelli," by resuming your studies."— "Granting that," answered Sannaro, "how is it possible to move even one step in that career without drawing on the slender resources of my mother and sister?""But why not borrow on your own credit ?"-" Borrow! and on what security, save by pledging the very means which I hold so sacred; and then play the gentleman and scholar on a borrowed purse? No, sooner"- "Softly, my good friend," said Novelli, playfully laying a hand on his mouth; "no altitudes, I beseech thee. I have told thee thou art no better than a visionary on some points; view the affair as a piece of business. I will obtain the money from my uncle, as if for my own use, but will treat with you as would a very Jew. You give me your bond for principal and interest at the highest rate; and thus I serve my friend, and have the pleasure of disposing my money advantageously. Say no more. So be it." Sannaro acquiesced; but, though looking coldly upon the measure itself, he was neither ungrateful to, nor mute in praise of, the contriver. Francesca listened to these commendations with a pleasure which perhaps she rightly attributed to an interest felt in her brother's friend, but with a throb that, to one more experienced in the mysteries of the heart, would have disclosed a nearer sympathy already nascent there.

On departing for Palermo, Sannaro solemnly and affectionately recommended to the attention of Novelli the solitude of his mother and sister. Months passed with equal rapidity, but with different occupation, over the actors in our little narrative. Sannaro, wholly devoted to study, prepared for the last arduous trials with a diligence which flagged not, because of the general anticipations of his success. The beloved members of the paternal home had recovered that tranquil resignation, by which sorrow is sweetened and sanctified. Their only pleasures were letters from Palermo, and the society of Novelli, whose visits had long become a constituent of their daily happiness. His devoted attachment to Francesca he sought not to conceal from himself, though, from various motives, he desired his affection might remain a secret to all besides. These motives he perhaps could not have satisfactorily explained; yet, that nothing questionable mingled in his sentiments, appears from the wish to cover his passion from its object also. As for Francesca, her sensibilities were so gentle, her mind so pure, that, knowing herself happy in the society of Novelli, or, during the intervals of his absence, in such pursuits and studies as he had praised, she neither knew nor sought to know more. In a soul so mildly constituted, the most insidious of all passions may long repose like air in the mind, till some unforeseen explosion lays the

the misfortune to fall into the power of a detachment to which Sannaro belonged. The outlaws were irritated by finding less booty than they expected; the old man was threatened, and the chief offered violence to the lady. Sannaro buried his dagger in the ruffian's side, and stood to the defence of his prisoners. Their leader, however, had been unpopular with the marauders, who were therefore the more readily induced to forgive his death, and

Sannaro undertook to receive. "Young man," said the duke, on parting with Sannaro, "you were not destined for your present trade; here is an equal sum, which I beg you to accept as an expression of my private gratitude to yourself. Could you be persuaded to quit a life unworthy of you, count on me as a friend." Sannaro's pulse beat high-he had now the virtuous means of obtaining wealth

whole fabric of happiness in ruins. In this manner were disclosed to Francesca the nature and depth of her feelings. She had been carefully instructed by her father, and painted with exquisite delicacy and taste. Why not turn this accomplishment to use, and procure for her mother some of those enjoyments which were now denied? The pious wish was no sooner formed than realized; but though her morning labours were concealed from her mother, they could not long escape the keen eye of No-released the prisoners on a promise of ransom, which velli. He discovered that an ancient domestic had been charged with negotiating the sale of the pictures, and became the purchaser under a feigned name, and at greatly advanced prices. Indiscreet management on the part of his agent disclosed the whole to Francesca. How describe the succeeding interview, which ended in a confession of mutual attachment !—“ Leave me !" exclaimed at length the weeping Francesca; "Oh, leave me, No--but no persuasion could induce him to accept more than velli! The inequality of our conditions forbids our union, while I tremble to think on the state of my own feelings, and the advantages which your own merits, your generosity to my brother and myself, give to you over my heart."—"Leave you! my Francesca; rather take back your love, and restore to me your friendship. This hour would I claim your hand in face of the world, but that, in so doing, I should bring ruin on both. You know I am wholly dependent on my uncle; he cannot, in the course of nature, long survive." In this Novelli spoke neither falsely nor in guile.

A year had passed away since the death of his father, and Sannaro had triumphantly achieved the highest honours of the academical career. The goal of independence was almost in sight, and every thing promised final success. While thus happy in his new prospects, a letter, with the post-mark of his native city, was placed in his hands. Without observing the different writing, he tore it open, for every such letter had yet spoken either of friendship or affection-and read-" Thy friend is false-Thy name dishonoured.-Retrieve, or avenge."

To regain his peace of mind was impossible; next dawn beheld Sannaro on his homeward and melancholy way. "I do not ask," said he to Novelli, extending the letter, "whether such reports be true, but such reports are, and I look to you to retrieve, or-avenge I cannot, for my hand is palsied by obligation." Novelli, in that hardened state of mind which indicates dissatisfaction with our own conduct, but a desire to fix our quarrel upon another, replied, "What have I to do with vulgar rumour-you know your redress."- "I do-and the redress I ask is justice to my sister."- "What," cried Novelli, must I wive me at your bidding?"-" Coward!" exclaimed Sannaro, "to betray me under the mask of friendship.""Coward!" and Novelli, striking him a dreadful blow, drew his sword. Sannaro laid his hand upon his own—a convulsive shiver passed across his countenance -he slowly withdrew his hand from the weapon. "Yes, Novelli, I am a coward-I dare not fight the man to whom I owe an unrequited obligation; but beware”— repeating each word with slow and solemn utterance"when next we meet, it will be to part only in death." Sannaro rushed from the house and from Girgenti without seeing any one. His intention was to gain Messina, and thence pass over into Italy; but, pursuing the most unfrequented paths, he was taken by robbers. With these outlaws he was constrained by an oath to join, under the penalty of death; and, strange to say, he cherished life to repay his debt and avenge his dishonour! He had remained nearly three months with his new companions, and by intrepidity and conduct gained an ascendency over their rude minds. Hoards of uncounted gold were confided to his keeping, whence unchallenged he might have abstracted the sum which he so eagerly desired to possess. He shrunk, however, from appropriating the wages of crime to what he deemed a sacred cause. So inconsistent is man! One day, an aged nobleman, the Duke of Terra Nova, accompanied by his daughter, had

the exact sum with interest, which he owed to Novelli. Returning to the freebooters, he faithfully restored the stipulated ransom, made his escape the same night, and the shortest possible time beheld him at Novelli's gate.

Here, had not his mind been pre-occupied, he might have observed a strange note of mourning and of joyous preparation. To his enquiries-a domestic replied that the young count his master was at home. Sannaro was eager to rush upon his victim. Judge of his surprise, and, in the supposed circumstances, indignation, on entering the apartment, to find Francesca and the count there alone. A tear was in her eye-but not of grief. She would have thrown herself upon her brother's neck, but was repulsed. "Off!" cried he, "my Francesca was pure-thou!" and he pointed scornfully to Novelli. "Leave us alone, my love," whispered the count, "all will yet be well." The poor girl hid her face in her hands and retired weeping.

-

Sannaro continued with his eyes fixed upon his sister till she had disappeared; then turning round, he threw a purse of gold with violence upon the table, Sir Count, I am no longer your debtor-my bond.""It is here," said Novelli, offering a parchment. "Nay, read it," added he, with a smile, observing that Sannaro prepared to fold it up. "What needs it? I presume all is right, because you say so,”—the last words ironically pronounced— and tearing the document, he threw it into the tripod of burning charcoal which stood on the hearth. A cloud passed over the youthful brow of the count, and he evidently laboured to restrain his resentment. "Now," exclaimed Sannaro, advancing and drawing his sword, "now for my pledge at last parting."-" Hear me," cried Novelli, retreating; " I am”- "A coward and seducer," shouted his adversary, and springing forward, struck him violently on the face. Novelli's passion was up. He drew-they closed, struggled, thrust-the count in a few seconds fell, mortally wounded, and expired almost instantly. The noise alarmed all within hearing. Among the first, Sannaro beheld his mother and sister rush into the apartment. Francesca fell senseless on the dead body of the count. His mother, turning slowly to Sannaro, gazed upon him for a moment. "Son, I do not, cannot curse thee; but let this be thy curse, thou art the murderer of thy sister's husband!" It was even so. morning the nuptials had been performed, and the parchment which the count so gayly placed in the hands of his ancient friend, was the marriage contract.

That very

Sannaro heard his mother's address as if he heard it not; but when she had ceased speaking, roused, as if from insensibility, he sprung from the hall, and was seen sweeping with fearful rapidity along the brow of the precipice, as if seeking by the shortest route to regain the fastnesses of the interior. Suddenly, whether by accident or design it is impossible to know, he was beheld to plunge forwards and disappear. His mangled body was found where his lonely tomb marks the spot. The hand yet grasped the bloody sword, shivered in the fall, and the fragments of the weapon that had served its wearer

but too faithfully were buried with him in the same grave.

MILITARY MEMORANDA.
By an Amateur.

THE GRAND BLUNDER.

WE have both read in books, and heard in conversation, many criticisms on the subject of Napoleon's "grand error" at Waterloo. He made no account of the force of inert resistance possessed by British infantry;-he ordered his cavalry to charge too soon ;-his attacks wanted the necessary vigour and ensemble;-he was no longer the same man except in obstinacy, which proved the cause of his overthrow ;-the battle was lost by treachery on the part of some French officers :-these are some of the reasons usually assigned for the extraordinary and unexpected result of that ever-memorable and decisive combat.

The real cause of the complete overthrow of the French army appears to us to lie much deeper than is commonly suspected.

:

was almost indifferent which, in a position so completely résserrée. It is a rule in tactics, that the decisive effort ought never to be made against the centre of a line, unless one or both the wings are separated from it by some natural obstacle, as a river or a mountain, which cannot be surmounted in time to reinforce the point attacked. Accordingly, when Napoleon himself attacked the centre of the Austrians, under Alvinzi, at Rivoli, the left, under Davidowich, was separated from the centre by the river Adige and a mountain so steep and precipitous as to be nearly impassable; while the right was so disseminated in the mountains as to be capable of rendering little or no assistance at the critical moment when the centre was assailed by a greatly superior force. But it must be obvious that an attack upon the centre of a position, like that of the British at Waterloo, could have had none of these advantages; since even if it had for a moment succeeded, and the assailants had established themselves on the point they had forced, the reinforcements simultaneously drawn from both extremities would promptly arrive, and attacking them on both flanks at once, soon restore the combat. And this was, accordingly, what actually occurred. The French succeeded in establishing themselves on the key of the position at La Haye Sainte; but, so far from being able to turn this advantage to any account, they found it impossible to maintain the ground they had so hardly gained, and were soon driven from it with great loss. A very different result might, however, have followed a combined effort directed against one or other of the extremities. As it was, the comparatively partial and feeble attack upon the Chateau of Hougomont had very nearly succeeded: had it been made with greater energy and force, it would, in all probability, have prevailed, and the French would have gained the Duke of Wellington's communi. cations with Brussels, and established themselves in force at right angles to, and in rear of, the right of the British line, before sufficient reinforcements could have been withdrawn from the centre and left to offer any effectual resistance, or attempt to dislodge them; just as Marshal Daun, at the battle of Hohenkirch, succeeded in establishing his army athwart and in rear of the Prussian right, and, in spite of every effort which Frederick, with all his genius and gallantry, could make, maintained his ground, and gained a complete victory.

Napoleon had opened the campaign in his usual mannner, and with his usual success. Suddenly concentrating his masses, and assuming the initiative in movement, of which he well knew the advantages, he executed a marche dérobée of many miles, before it was known or suspected that he had stirred from his cantonments; and his advanced guard was aux prises with that of the Prussians, when it was believed at head-quarters that it was still on the Sambre. The battle of Ligny followed: Blucher was totally defeated, and driven from the ground: the British position was uncovered; and the surprise was complete at all points. So far, then, the plan of the French Emperor had fully answered his expectations. It had been conceived with the greatest ability, and the execution had hitherto corresponded with the design. But advantage was not taken of the surprise which had been produced not a moment was to be lost and had Napoleon, after gaining the battle of Ligny, instantly pushed forward against the British with the whole of his disposable force, and assailed them with his overwhelming masses, before they had time to assemble in force, the result could scarcely have been doubtful. Instead of this, however, he violated his own maxim, the observance of which had rendered him so often victorious, and divided his force; sending a corps d'armée, instead of a single division, to watch the Prussians, while the force detached under Ney had proved insufficient to make head against the British, and overpower them in the act of assembling. This was a fatal error. Ney met with the most determined resistance, where he expected an easy victory; and, operating without vigour or ensemble, the British gained time to concentrate, under cover of the gallant battalions who were devotedly pouring out their best blood at Quatre Bras. The decisive moment was thus lost, and an irretrievable error committed. Had Napoleon himself, conformably to his usual principles and conduct, urged forward the mass of his army, and brought the whole of his force to bear upon the British regiments which had been so grievously maltraités in the affair of Quatre Bras, the immediate result would have been certain; while, by pressing onward, he might have gained the grand strategic point of the position at Water-daughter, "dinna blear your een wi' greeting. What loo, before the British were in a condition to offer any effectual resistance, and thus determined the fate of the campaign. As it happened, however, the Duke of Wellington was enabled to concentrate his forces at Waterloo, and to await the final and decisive attack.

Such appears to us to have been the "grand error" committed by Napoleon in this battle. That he threw away his superb cavalry too soon in the day, is certain. But this was a consequence of the "error" we have mentioned, not the immediate cause of the loss of the battle. He attacked upon a false principle; and every movement which he directed in conformity with it was necessarily an error. But it is to the principle alone that, in reasoning scientifically on the plan of attack, we are to ascribe its failure; more especially as the officers and soldiers of the French army never displayed more heroic courage, more devoted gallantry, or more determined resolution, than on this ever memorable day.

THE BROKEN RING.

By one of the Authors of the "Odd Volume.” "HOUT, lassie," said the wily Dame Seton to her

would honest Maister Binks say, if he were to come in the now and see you looking baith dull and dour? Dight your een, my bairn, and snood back your hairI'se warrant you'll make a bonnier bride than ony o' your sisters."" I carena whether I look bonny or no, since And here, again, we discover another error on the part of Willie winna see me," said Mary, while her eyes filled the French Emperor, which, with an enemy like the Bri- with tears. "Oh, mother, ye have been ower hasty in tish to deal with, could scarcely miss proving fatal. Con- this matter; I canna help thinking he will come hame trary to the most certain and demonstrable principles of yet, and make me his wife. It's borne in on my mind tactics, he directed his main attack against the centre of the that Willie is no dead."" Put awa such thoughts out British line, instead of one or other of the extremities-ito' your head, lassie," answered her mother; "naebody

"Hech,

soon, my bonny lassie," said the sybil.
sirs, that's piper's news, I trow," retorted the dame,
with great contempt; can ye no tell us something
better worth the hearing?"-" Maybe I can," answered
the spaewife; "what would you think if I were to tell
you that your daughter keeps the half o' the gold ring
she broke wi' the winsome sailor lad near her heart by
night and by day?"-" Get out o' my house, ye tinkler!"
cried Dame Seton, in wrath; "we want to hear nae such
clavers."-" Ye wanted news," retorted the fortune-teller;
"and I trow I'll gie ye mair than you'll like to hear.
Harkye, my bonny lassie, ye'll be married soon, but no to
Jamie Binks-here's an anchor in the palm of your hand,
as plain as a pikestaff.”—“ Awa wi' ye, ye leeing Egyptian
that ye are," cried Dame Seton, "or I'll set the dog on
ye, and I'll promise ye he'll no leave ae dud on your
back to mend another."-"I wadna redd ye to meddle
wi' me, Dame Seton," said the fortune-teller. "And now,
having said my say, and wishing ye a blithe bridal, I'll
just be stepping awa ;" and ere another word was spoken,
the gipsy had crossed the threshold.

'doubts but yoursell that the ship that he sailed in was
whummiled ower in the saut sea-what gars you threep
he's leeving that gate?"" Ye ken, mother," answered
Mary, "that when Willie gaed awa on that wearifu'
voyage, to make the croun a pound,' as the auld sang
says, he left a kist o' his best claes for me to take care o';
'for he said he would keep a' his braws for a day that's no
like to come, and that's our bridal; now, ye ken it's said,
that as long as the moths keep off folk's claes, the ouner
o' them is no dead,—so I e'en took a look o' his bit things
the day, and there's no a broken thread amang them."-
"Ye had little to do to be howking among a dead man's
claes," said her mother; "it was a bonny like job for a
bride."—" But I'm no a bride," answered Mary, sobbing.
"How can ye hae the heart to speak o't, mother, and the
year no out since I broke a ring wi' my ain Willie -
Weel hae I keepit my half o' it; and, if Willie is in this
world, he'll hae the other as surely."-" I trust poor
Willie is in a better place," said the mother, trying to
'sigh; "and, since it has been ordered sae, ye maun just
settle your mind to take honest Maister Binks; he's rich,
Mary, my dear bairn, and he'll let ye want for naething."
"Riches canna buy true love," said Mary." But they
can buy things that will last a hantle langer," responded"
the wily mother; "so, Mary, ye maun take him, if you
would hae me die in peace. Ye ken I can leave you but
little the house and bit garden maun gang to your bro-
ther, and his wife will make him keep a close hand;—
she'll soon let you see the cauld shouther. Poor relations
are unco little thought o'; so, lassie, as ye would deserve
my benison, dinna keep simmering it and wintering it
any longer, but take a gude offer when it's made ye."-
"I'll no hae him till the year is out," cried Mary." Wha
kens but the ship may cast up yet."-"I fancy we'll hae
to gie ye your ain gate in this matter," replied the dame,
"mair especially as it wants but three weeks to the year,
and we'll need that to hae ye cried in the kirk, and to
get a' your braws ready.”—“ Oh, mother, mother, I wish
ye world let me die!" was Mary's answer, as she flung
herself down on her little bed.

"I'll no marry Jamie Binks," cried Mary, wringing her hands; "send to him, mother, and tell him sae."The sorrow take the lassie," said Dame Seton, "would you make yoursell and your friends a warld wonder, and a' for the clavers o' a leeing Egyptian,-black be her fa that I should ban."—" Oh, mother, mother," cried Mary, "how can I gie ae man my hand when another has my heart?"-" Troth, lassie," replied her mother," a living joe is better than a dead ane ony day; but whether Willie be dead or living, ye shall be Jamie Binks's wife the morn; sae take nae thought o' that ill-deedy body's words, but gang ben the house and dry your een, and Annot will put the last steek in your bonny white gown."

With a heavy heart Mary saw the day arrive which was to seal her fate; and while Dame Seton is bustling about, getting every thing in order for the ceremony, which was to be performed in the house, we shall take the liberty of directing the attention of our readers to the Delighted at having extorted Mary's consent to the outside passengers of a stage-coach, advancing from the marriage, Dame Seton quickly conveyed the happy intel-south, and rapidly approaching Dunbar. Close behind ligence to her son-in-law elect, a wealthy burgess of Dunbar; and having invited Annot Cameron, Mary's cousin, to visit them, and assist her in cheering the sorrowful bride, the preparations for the marriage proceeded in due | form,

On the day before that appointed for the wedding, as the cousins sat together arranging the simple ornaments of the bridal dress, poor Mary's feelings could no longer be restrained, and her tears fell fast. "Dear sake, Mary, gie ower greeting," said Annot; "the bonny white satin ribbon is wringing wet. "Sing her a canty sang to keep up her heart," said Dame Seton." I canna bide a canty sang the day," answered Mary, " for there's ane rinning in my head that my poor Willie made ae night as we sat beneath the rowan-tree outby there, and when we thought we were to gang hand in hand through this wearifu' world," and she began to sing in a low voice.

the coachman was seated a middle-aged substantial-looking farmer, with a round, fat, good-humoured face, and at his side was placed a handsome young sailor, whose frank and jovial manner, and stirring tale of shipwreck and captivity, had pleasantly beguiled the way. "And what's taking you to Dunbar the day, Mr Johnstone?" asked the coachman." Just a wedding, John," answered the farmer; "my cousin, Jamie Binks, is to be married the night."-" He has been a wee ower lang about it," said the coachman.-" I'm thinking," replied the farmer, "it's no the poor lassie's fault that the wedding hasna been put off longer; they say that bonny Mary has little gude will to her new joe.”—“ What Mary is that you are speaking about?" asked the sailor.—“ Oh, just bonny Mary Seton that's to be married the night," answered the farmer." When?" cried the sailor, giving a long whistle." I doubt," said the farmer, "she'll be but a waefu' bride, for the sough gangs that she hasna forgot an auld joe; but ye see he was away and no like to come back, and Jamie Binks is weel to pass in the world, and the mother, they say, just made her life bitter till the poor lassie was driven to say she would take him. It is no right in the mother, but folks say she is a dour wife, and had aye an ee to the siller."-" Right!" exclaimed the young sailor," she deserves the cat-o'-ninetails."—" Whisht, whisht, laddie," said the farmer;

At this moment the door of the dwelling opened, and a tall, dark-complexioned woman entered, and saying, "My benison on a' here," she seated herself close to the fire, and lighting her pipe, began to smoke, to the great annoyance of Dame Seton. “Gudewife,” said she, gruffly, "ye're spoiling the lassie's gown, raising such a reek, so here's an awmous to ye, and you'll just gang your ways, we're unco thrang the day."-" Nae doubt," rejoined the spaewife, “a bridal time is a thrang time, but it should be a heartsome ane too."-" And hae ye the ill" Preserve us, where is he gaun?" he continued, as the manners to say it's otherwise?" retorted Dame Seton; "Gang awa' wi' ye without anither bidding; ye're making the lassie's braws as black as coom."—" Will ye hae your fortune spaed, my bonny May ?" said the woman, as she seized Mary's hand. "Na, na,” answered Mary, "I ken it but ower weel already."" You'll be married

youth sprung from the coach and struck across the fields, -"He'll be taking the short cut to the town," answered the coachman, giving his horses the whip. The coach whirled rapidly on, and the farmer was soon set down at Dame Seton's dwelling, where the whole of the bridal party was assembled, waiting the arrival of the minister.