truth and auld friendship also-and do with you as I did with the Devil's Dick of Warrington, prune a lug or some such piece of extra leather." And the Caledonian started to his feet, and seemed inclined to address himself to the task-he passed a hand, large and sinewy, and as hard as iron, over a brow burning with anger, and shaded with some handfuls of carrotty locks-but he grew quickly calm. "For God's sake, Colville, man," he continued, "sing aught ye like but that-I cannot command my temper during the last verse, and I have no wish to command it either. Shall I quarrel with a Frenchman about fiend kens what-a fisherman's creel or a queen's muff-and yet let my blood keep cauld, when I hear the bonnie green hills of old Scotland turned by the vulgar malice of verse into pasture for swine? May I be made a public mendicant sooner, and be fed out of a parish spoon with parochial gruel prepared by act of parliament, and ladies' subscription soup, whenever I can sit quiet and listen to the end of such a rascally ditty as that." Loud laughed Corporal Colville at the wrath of his comrade; but he had no wish to come to an open rupture with the desperate Scot-he remembered the fate of the Devil's Dick of Warrington-he thought on the times when they had fought, side by side, in foreign lands, and done each other acts of kindness at moments when none but the firm and the brave can think of friendship. Something of this kind passed through Colville's mind--he seized forcibly on his old comrade's hand-shook, or rather wrung it heartily, and said, "You know, Sandie, that I meant no offence -I love your land, man, and I love you-but a frank free Englishman never spares a joke when it comes in his way he would impugn his mother's purity for the sake of a pun. And after all, what the devil is it that you are hot about? Must a man wed his affection to a green kale yard, with a crazy old house of turf and faggots, fit only to be set on fire to let a Scotchman see to run to England by the light. I was born on a pretty enough spot on a brook bank, and had lands to plough, and a house as high as Holyrood; but by the might of a thirteen inch shell, the hares might kittle on my father's hearthstone for all that his son cares." "Ye have said enough," said the Scotchman, extricating his hand from the Corporal's gripe-" enough, if ye are in jest, and far too much if ye are in earnest. Ye have some good points in your character, Colville— frank are ye, and brave and 1 believe honest. But is the place where your mother endured the birthtime pang for your sake-where your father first nursed ye on his kneewhere your sisters loved you-where you planted flowers, and found out bird-nests, and walked at twilight with one ye loved-not dearer to you than all meaner places? It is enough, Colville-your faith is not my faithand the drop of a Scotchman's blood is not within you. In a wild glen, by a wilder hill, was I born and educated all that stands of my father's house now is one memorial stone, and all that remains of his garden is one stunted tree with a shovelful of earth; for the folly of man has driven a road through the spot where my mother bore me. But I vow, that place, barren and broken down as it is, is dearer than all other places; and to that lonely spot, and to my father's grave, shall I go with the wish to die; for hill, and tree, and stream, and stone, will each recal something that blest my youth. You cannot feel these things-I blame you not, though I love you the less." "You shall not love me the less though," said Corporal Colville," or may the commissioner of turnpikes drive a road through me too, as well as your father's house. Why, man, I will turn my face to the Tweed with you, and we will sit on the last stone of your cottage wall, and crush a canteen of Nantz together. We will go to the old one's churchyard dwelling too-nay, never look brown about it, man-am I not striving to make your faith my faith? And may I be drummed through Hull, Hell, and Halifax, and all other towns in Yorkshire, for getting drunk like Dan Conolly with buttermilk, if I would strive to please any other man breathing." So saying, he elevated a flagon of ale, and presently made the polished bottom of the vessel shine in the evening light. During this conversation I observed, removed a little apart from their fellows, some score and a half of soldiers of a demurer frame of mind, who had formed a kind of circular fence or rampart with trunks and knapsacks, and spreading blankets and cloaks within the area, seated themselves beside their wives and children, secure against all, save the dew, which descended thick and fast. In the middle of this redoubt sat a woman, of sweet and regular features-her face somewhat tanned by exposure to the sun, a military cloak thrown loosely over her shoulders, with one child fondling in her bosom, and another lying sleeping on the ground at her feet. The moon shed a full and distinct light upon this curious bivouack; and while I stood imagining to what land a face so fair belonged, I observed her shed back the ringlets from her brow, smile on the child in her bosom, and then I heard her warbling, in a sweet mild voice, something which sounded like a northern song. "Now, Corporal Colville," said his Scottish comrade, "wipe the foam from your lips, and listen, for ye shall hear a creditable ballad." The voice of the woman waxed stronger and stronger-soldier after soldier hastened near and hearkened; and the following verses owed whatever charm they wrought to the time and place, and the mild impressive voice of the singer. THE THISTLE'S GROWN ABOON THE ROSE. Full white the Bourbon lily bows, Bright like a stedfast star it smiles Far has it shone on fields of fame, From matchless Bruce till dauntless Graeme, What conquer'd aye, what nobly spared, Bade France's dearest life-blood rue I vow-and let men mete the grass "I vow," said Corporal Colville, "it is a gallant song, and sweetly was it sung. I have heard that voice singing on a shore far from this-on a wild stream bank, where the groves of citron scent the walls of Buenos Ayres." "Buenos Ayres!" said the woman; "who speaks of that unhappy place, where the bravest of our youth were slain, and the remainder made captive?" And she held her hand before her eyes to shade the light of the moon, as she gazed on his person. "It is one," said Colville, "who speaks of that fatal shore, who tasted there the sorrows of long captivity-who helped to storm one of the gates-to drive the Spaniards before him, and to seize, with his gallant comrades, on the church, with the hope of defending it till succours came from without." "I remember the church well," said the soldier's wife-its images of gold, and its vessels of pure gold, and its altars of silver. The walls were shining with the richest offerings, and covered with paintings representing the legends of the Spanish saints." "Ah," said Colville, 66 even in the haste and dread of the time, I could not help smiling while I looked on the altar-piece a legendary lady sat on a painted cloud-rays of light streamed round her head, while from her open bosom she shed rainbows of religious milk into the upturned mouths of the gaping multitude below. It was no pleasant interruption, when a cannon ball came crash over our heads, and a Spanish trumpet summoned us to surrender." "I mind it well," said the soldier's wife;" and after the trumpet a voice came crying Heretics, you are betrayed, but spare our saints, and we will spare your lives.' Ah, my heart died within me, when you were all marched out into the square and disarmed, while a renegade Irishman called out to you When the big bell tolls be all ready to die, my sweet countrymen, and the devil shall have the picking of your heretical ribs.' "I shall never forget," interrupted Colville, "the loud shriek of agony which one of our soldiers set up when the bell tolled, and a Spanish regiment marched into the square. Fear is contagious, and I sought more courageous company, but they came to plunder, not to slaughter us; and they made wicked speed among our pockets, which were lined with gold. A Frenchman in the Spanish pay laid hold of me-I looked in his face and laughed-he laughed also-Spare,' I said, in his native tongue, a poor miserable devil with a few dirty ducats;' he had something in his look which I liked-he gave a nod-passed his hands over my pockets in all the outward appearance of strict dutypushed me from him, and said, 'Begone, thou pennyless Frank,' and so I saved my riches." "You saved your gold, Colville," said the soldier's wife, "but you escaped not soI think fiends, not women, bore the dames and damsels of Buenos Ayres-they came trooping from hall and convent to load you with reproaches as you passed. I have seen much of woman's hate, but I never saw her hate a handsome fellow before." "And so you saw," said Colville," the shame put upon me-let me tell the story myself. As we marched into the market-place, I saw a lady tall and beautiful- and so richly dressed, that she seemed more an idol robed in the offerings of kings than a woman. I could not help gazing on her as I passed-and I think a piece of good healthy ruddy English flesh and blood may look on the proudest of all the tawny dames of New Spain. She fixed her eyes, large and dark, and swimming in liquid lustre, on me, and motioned me out of the ranks. When I approached, she spit in my face and said, I scorn thee, heretic! It is a shame that your face should be so fair, and your form so beautiful.' And she turned from me with a look of immeasureable scorn, and made her jewelled robes rustle in disdain as she retired." At this moment the loud summons of a drum was heard, and Corporal Colville and his companions snatched up their knapsacks, and vanished from my sight among the maimed and military populace of Chelsea. NALLA. VALENTINE'S DAY. A HOMILY FOR THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY. WHERE is the village to which Valentines are unknown? What terra incognita is therewhat Ultima Thule (barren of love) to which the sun that rises on this day brings no joy-where the postman's double knock was never heard? The air may no more be free from birds or summer-sporting flies, than the earth from its gay and gaudy missives (its butterflies), the Februaryhaunting Valentines. When letters shall cease to be written (but not till then), when love shall be no more, then shall this amorous holiday darken and grow common: then shall it be a mere vulgar root (now, how full of rare and sweet flowers!) in the wilderness of days—a grain in the desarts of time. -Valentines pervade all space, like light, There is N, the smallest village of Wiltshire. It is far away from, the high road. You leave C (the market town) on your left, and have to walk some three miles, at first over a small heath, and finally upon a flat road of fine gravel, between green hedges and greener pastures, before you reach it. The spire of its little church (you see it through the avenue of elms), scarcely peers over the trees which cluster round it, seeming to guard it from profaner eyes. The village itself is small and straggling. You come upon a few cottages, as many alms-houses; then a farmyard opens its gate by the way side, and a cow paces stately forth, turning her head backwards, perhaps, lowing to her companions left behind. You then pass more cottages (some half-dozen or so), then the small public-house, over whose porch hangs a cloud of flowering clematis; and finally, Mr. D's (the merchant's) old-fashioned brick house, before which stand the sun-flower and pyramidal holly-hock, closing the scene. Yet even here Valentines were accustomed to come. The postmistress of C knows this; the FEB. 1823. post-man knew it, by his quadruple load; every body thereabouts knew it: for with country people intelligence of this sort travelleth briskly, despite of the ruggedness of roads, the inconveniences of distance. Good-morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day! the wise Polonius. Good-morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, And thou shalt be mine, Ophelia ; and I will gather pale snowdrops and the sweet-smelling violet for thee. Thou shalt have a fair nosegay of winter flowers, thou rose of the northern desart; and, if they can be had, daisies (but not the rue), fennel and columbines, as of old; and, if thou wilt,-the willow. Yet this day was meant for merrier things, perhaps. It is a red-letter day, half-holy; no feast, no fast; but held free of care by a gentle charter, invested with a rich prerogative, the power of giving pleasure to the young. If the tradition be true, that on this day each bird chooseth his mate, what work hath the carrier pigeon! What rustling of leaves; what chattering and singing in the woods; what billing by the clear waters!-Methinks, on this day should Romeo have first seen the gentle Capulet. On this day should Orlando have first glanced at Rosalind; Troilus at the fickle Cressid; Slender (oh! smile not, gentles, L at Anne Page. The jealous Moor should have told his first war-story to-day; and to-day Prospero should have broken his spell, and made holiday in his enchanted isle, and crowned the time by giving to the son of Naples his innocent and fair Miranda. Fain would I have Valentine's Day the origin of love, or the completion, an epoch writ in bright letters in Cupid's calendar, a date whence to reckon our passion, a period to which to refer our happiness. As to its own history, what matters it, whether a day so brave rise in the cast or in the west? What care we if it had its birth in Roman superstition or Pagan gallantry! HERE IT IS. Let us not waste the morning in barren speculation, but enjoy the day. It is wiser, surely, to partake of the branching shelter of the summer elms, than to perplex our pleasures by for ever tracing the course of their roots. That is for the moles, the etymologists. Green leaves and azure skies for us! 66 Once, it is said, our "vulgar ancestors used to draw names on Valentine's eve, and such drawings were considered ominous: as thus if Jacob Stiles drew the name of Sally Gates, or vice versa, Jacob and Sally were henceforward considered "as good as" man and wife.-(Our present lottery, where we are tolerably sure of our blank, is bad enough, but this is the d--1.)-I can well fancy how the country couple would look, flying at first in the face of the augury: Sally mantling and blushing, half proud and half 'shamed, turning to her neighbour Blossom, and exclaiming, nonsense!”—Jacob, on the other hand, at something between a grin and a blush, leering on his shouting companions, or expanding a mouth huge enough to swallow every written Valentine in the village. I see him look (for help) from clown to clown; upwards and downwards; he whistles, he twirls his smock frock, he stands cross-legged, like the nephew of Mr. Robert Shallow, when the maiden Page invited him house-wards. Tis all in vain. The prophecy is upon them; and 'tis odds, but the name of Gates will sink and be merged in some three or six months into the cognomen of Jacob. The diffusion of learning, and the "schools for all," have done a great deal of good. We are not, I thank my stars, reduced now to these manual or verbal Valentines. We shut up our blushes (with our verses) in a sheet of foolscap, and trust them to the protection of the twopenny post. At C (where I spent some years) good Mrs. Baily used to go to "the box" at stated periods of the preceding evening, and relieve it from time to time of its too great burthen of love. You might see, towards dusk, girls (in pairs) or straggling youths, dropping their indiscretions into the yawning chasm; sometimes this was boldly done, but oftener timorously, and the quickened step of the amorist retreating from the letter-box, passing, with an air of indifference, onwards, betrayed all he (or she) wished to conceal. Then, the next morning! There was an additional postman employed the ordinary man, grey-headed, and sure, but slow, was deemed insufficient. The "London letters" were not delivered at the accustomed time: and on asking the maid-servant, she would reply, with a tinge on her cheek, that "she believed it was Valentine's Day." Oh! well believed. She was never mistaken. But the postman comes. "Three for Miss Lewis, four for Miss Carter, seventeen for Mr. believed. or Hush! it will never be It cannot be it is a jest -a fable-a monstrous, impossibleIt is the truth-or near it. Oh! those were careless days. They were, but they are gone. No Valentines come now, as Crockery would say. I must bid farewell to all those plea sant periodicals-the pierced hearts, and the quaint rhymes, which showed my twopence well spent |