until I return." Having said this, writing materials were procured from amongst the stores of the plundered carriage-the required order was written. Diavolo read the document over when finished, gave a nod of approbation, folded up the paper, and placed it in his bosom. The bandit chief was now about to turn away from the unhappy captives to rejoin his gang, for the purpose of explaining to them what had taken place, and to leave with them his last injunctions regarding the prisoners before he should set out on his perilous mission, when his eye was suddenly caught by a ring which the lady wore on one of her fingers. "Aha!"-exclaimed Diavolo, at the same instant rudely snatching at the fair but feeble hand on which the jewel glistened" We have not gotten all I find. This will suit my handsome little Lucette exactly" he added, and now forcing off the ring from the finger on which it was placed-"I have long promised her some such toy as this, and methinks this one will fit her as nicely as if it had been the choice of a thousand, for she has just such another handsome sweet little hand as this of your daughter's, Sir"-he said, and now looking askance at the father of her whom he was thus pitilessly plundering. Hitherto the unfortunate lady had seemed unconscious of the situation in which she was placed; exhausted by weakness and overwhelmed with terror, she had lain passively in the arms of her father, her eyes closed, and exhibiting no other symptom of existence than by a low but rapid and troubled breathing. The attempt, however, of Diavolo to deprive her of her ring, instantly aroused the miserable girl from her lethargy. "O no-no"-she exclaimed, in a weak and tremulous tone, at the same time clenching her feeble hand despairingly, as if to resist the violence which was of fered-" I cannot, I will not part with it, although it was to save my life. Take all, take every thing I have, but leave me that, and I shall die contented." "The gift of some love-sick swain, I'll be sworn”said the ferocious bandit, regardless of the appeal which had just been made to him, and still persevering, though now with some show of gentleness, in his efforts to get possession of the ring-"I can't be put off with such flimsy fooleries, fair lady" he went on-"my trade would be but a poor one if I was to listen to all the whining cant with which I am assailed when relieving ladies and gentlemen of their superfluous finery." With vain efforts, and still vainer attempts, to excite the sympathy of the freebooter, the poor girl still endeavoured to keep possession of her treasure, for it was indeed the gift of a first and only love. "Do not, do not, for God's sake, deprive me of this little jewel" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together with all the energy of despair-"Though worth worlds to me, its intrinsic value is but small. It can be no object to you." In these appeals to the better feelings of the brigand, the unhappy girl was joined by her father, but in vain. In a few minutes the ring glittered on the swarthy sun burnt hand of Diavolo, who, in possession of his prize, now hastened away to join his comrades. "It matters not much after all, my dear father" said the poor girl, speaking at intervals, and pausing to take breath after each word she uttered, being totally exhausted with the effort she had made.-"It matters not much, after all"—she said, endeavouring to lessen the pain which she saw her parent felt on her account--" I had hoped, indeed, that it would have, descended with me into the grave. I did not think I should have been parted from it either in life or in death-but what was it after all, but an outward symbol-an inanimate unconscious type-the thoughts, associations, and feelings with which it was connected can and will exist without it-They are beyond the reach of the spoiler--none but him who gave them can take them away." Totally worn out with the violent exertions she had made, the unfortunate lady now again sank senseless on the bosom of her parent. In a few minutes, however, the helpless pair were joined by the whole banditti in marching order. Their plunder was carefully packed up, and distributed amongst them in separate parcels for its easier conveyance. Their rifles were slung from their shoulders. In short the whole appearance of the gang indicated the contemplation of a long and arduous march, an indication which was soon verified by their ordering the captives to get up. Finding that this was impossible to be complied with in the case of their female prisoner, they proceeded, with much grumbling, and a thousand oaths, to form a rude kind of bier. On this the unfortunate lady was placed, and in a short time the whole banditti, with the exception of Diavolo, who had suddenly disappeared, were seen winding their way far up through a narrow defile in the rocky rampart that forms the eastern side of the valley. SONG THE TRYSTING HOUR. BY ROBERT GILFILLAN, ESQ. AUTHOR OF " ORIGINAL POEMS IN THE SCOTTISH DIALECT," &c. ADOWN the glen the saft winds blaw, Adown the glen my laddie comes, The trysting hour! the trysting hour! The Ay or No's a solemn word When faithfu' lovers come to woo! I'll braid my hair around my brow- I'll try to quiet my anxious heart, Gin that my heart would guide my tongue, But then, although sic were my thoughts, The trysting hour! &c. A moment paused's a moment lost, The trysting hour! the trysting hour! The Ay or No's a solemn word When faithfu' lovers come to woo! THE VACANT CHAIR. BY JOHN MACKAY WILSON, AUTHOR OF "BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL LECTURES," &c. You have all heard of the Cheviot mountains-if you have not, they are a rough, ragged majestic chain of hills, which a poet might term-the Roman wall of nature, crowned with snow, belted with thunder, surrounded by pastures and fruitful fields, and still dividing the sister kingdoms. With their proud summits piercing the clouds, and their dark rocky declivities frowning in savage steepness upon the plains below, they appear a mighty image graven by the Creator, symbolical of the wild and untameable spirits of the Borderers who once inhabited their sides. We say that you have all heard of the Cheviots, and know them to be very high hills, like a huge clasp rivetting England and Scotland together, but we are not aware that you may have heard of Marchlaw, an old grey-looking farm house substantial as a modern fortress, recently, and for aught we know to the contrary, still inhabited by Peter Elliott, the proprietor of some five hundred surrounding acres. The boundaries of Peter's farm indeed were neither defined by fields, hedges, nor stonewalls: a wooden stake there, and a stone here, at considerable distances from each other, were the general land-marks, but neither Peter nor his neighbours considered a few acres worth quarrelling about, and their sheep frequently visited each other's pastures, in a friendly way, harmoniously sharing a family dinner, in the same spirit as their masters made themselves free at each other's table. Peter was placed in very unpleasant circumstances owing to the situation of Marchlaw house, which unfortunately was built immediately across the "ideal line”— dividing the two kingdoms, and his misfortune was, that being born within it, he knew not whether he was an Englishman or a Scotchman. He could trace his ancestral line no farther back than his great grandfather, who, it appeared from the family Bible, had, together with his grandfather and father, claimed Marchlaw as their birth-place. They, however, were not placed in the perplexities of their descendant. The parlour was distinctly acknowledged to be in Scotland, and two-thirds of the kitchen were as certainly allowed to be in England; his three ancestors were born in the room over the parlour, and therefore were Scotchmen beyond question; but Peter unluckily being brought into the world before the death of his grandfather, his parents occupied a room immediately over the debateable boundary line which crossed the kitchen. The room, though scarcely eight feet square, was evidently situated between the two countries, but no one being able to ascertain what portion belonged to each, Peter, after many arguments and altercations upon the subject, was driven to the disagreeable alternative of confessing he knew not what countryman he was. What rendered the confession the more painful was it was Peter's highest ambition to be thought a Scotchmanall his arable land lay on the Scotch side-his mother was collaterally related to the Stuarts-and few families were more ancient or respectable than the Elliotts. Peter's speech indeed bewrayed him to be a walking partition between the two kingdoms-a living representation of the Union, for in one word he pronounced the letter r with the broad masculine sound of the North Briton, and in the next with the liquid burr of the Northumbrians. Peter, or if you prefer it, Peter Elliott, Esq. of Marchlaw, in the Counties of Northumberland and Roxburgh, was for many years the best runner, leaper and wrestler between Wooler and Jedburgh. Whirled from his hand, the ponderous bullet whizzed through the air like a pigeon on the wing, and the best putter on the borders quailed from competition; as a feather in his grasp he seized the unwieldy hammer, swept it round and round his head, accompanying with agile limb its evolutions, swiftly as swallows play around a circle, and hurled it from his hands like a shot from a rifle, till antagonists shrank back, and the spectators burst into a shout!" Well done, Squire !-the Squire for ever!" exclaimed a servile observer of titles. "Squire! wha are ye squiring at?" returned Peter-" confound ye, where was ye when I was christened Squire?" My name's Peter Elliott, your man, or any body's man at what ever they like!" Peter's soul was free, bounding and buoyant as the wind that carolled in a zephyr, or shouted in a hur ricane upon his native hills; and his body was thirteen stones of healthy substantial flesh steeped in the spirits of life. He had been long married, but marriage had wrought no change upon him. They, who suppose that wedlock transforms the lark into an owl, offer an insult to the lovely beings who, brightening our darkest hours with the smiles of affection, teach us, that that only is unbecoming in the husband which is disgraceful in the man. Nearly twenty years had passed over them-Janet was still as kind, and in his eyes as beautiful, as when, bestowing on him her hand, she blushed her vows at the altar; and he was still as happy-as generous and as free. Nine fair children sat around their domestic hearth, and one, the youngling of the flock, smiled upon its mother's knee. Peter had never known sorrow; he was blest in his wife, in his children and his flocks. He was beloved by his neighbours, the tillers of his ground and his herdsmen-yea, no man envied his prosperity. But a blight passed over the harvest of his joys, and gall was rained into the cup of his felicity. VOL. I. F It was Christmas-day, and a more melancholy looking sun never rose upon a twenty-fifth of December. One vast sable cloud, like a universal pall, overspread the whole heavens. For weeks the earth had been covered with clear dazzling snow, and as throughout the day the rain continued its unwearied and monotonous drizzle, the earth assumed a character and appearance melancholy and troubled as the heavens. Like a mastiff that has lost its owner, the wind howled dolefully down the glens, and was re-echoed from the caves of the mountains as the lamentations of a legion of invisible spirits. The frowning snow-clad precipices were instinct with motion, as avalanche upon avalanche-the larger burying the less-crowded downward in their tremendous journey to the plain. The simple mountain rills had assumed the majesty of rivers the broader streams were swollen into the wild torrent, and, gushing forth as cataracts in fury and in foam, enveloped the valleys in an angry flood. But at Marchlaw the fire blazed blythly-the kitchen groaned beneath the load of prepara tions for a joyful feast, and glad faces glided from room to room. Peter Elliott kept Christmas, not so much because it was Christmas as in honour of its being the birth-day of Thomas his first-born, who had that day entered his nineteenth year. With a father's love his heart yearned for all his children, but Thomas was the pride of his eyes. Cards of apology had not then found their way amongst our border hills, and as all knew, that although Peter admitted no spirits within his threshhold, nor a drunkard at his table, he was nevertheless no niggard in his hospitality, his invitations were accepted without cere mony. The guests were assembled; and the kitchen being the only apartment in the building large enough to contain them-the cloth was spread upon a long clear oaken table stretching from England into Scotland. On the English end of the board were placed a ponderous plum-pudding studded with temptation, and a smoking sirloin-in Scotland a savoury and well-seasoned haggis, with a sheep's head and trotters, while the intermediate space was filled with the good things in this life common to both kingdoms and the season. The guests from the north and from the south were arranged promiscuously-every seat was filled-save one!-the chair by Peter's right hand remained unoccupied. He had raised his hand before his eyes, and besought a blessing on what was placed before them, and was preparing to carve for his visitors, when his eyes fell upon the Vacant Chair!-the knife was dropped upon the table-anxiety flashed across his countenance like a deadly arrow from an unseen hand. "Janet, where is Thomas?" he enquired, "have none o' ye seen him?" and without waiting an answer, he continued, "how is it pos sible he can be absent at a time like this?—And in such a day too! Excuse me a minute freends, till I just step out an' see if I can find him. Since ever I keept this day, as mony o' ye ken, he has always been at my right hand, in that very chair, and I canna think o' beginning our dinner while I see it empty." If the filling of the chair be all" said a pert young sheep farmer named Johnson, "I will step into it till master Thomas arrive." "Ye are not a faither, young man!" said Peter, and walked out of the room. Minute succeeded minute, but Peter returned not. The guests |
