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gentianella blue, which served, by its brillant, yet contrasted colouring, to enhance the brightnes of the brightest complexion. Tripping along to school with her neat covered basket in her chubby hand, the little lass was perfect.

I could not help looking and admiring, and stopping to look; and the pretty child stopped too, and dropped her little curtsy; and then I spoke, and then she spoke, for she was too innocent, too unfearing, too modest to be shy; so that Susy and I soon became acquainted; and in a very few days the acquaintanceship was extended to a fine open-countenanced man, and a sweet-looking and intelligent young woman, Susan's father and mother,-one or other of whom used to come almost every evening, to meet their darling on her return from school; for she was an only one,-the sole offspring of a marriage of love, which was, I believe, reckoned unfortunate by everybody except the parties concerned; they felt and knew that they were happy.

I soon learnt their simple history. William Jervis, the only son of a rich carpenter, had been attached almost from childhood, to his fair neighbour, Mary Price, the daughter of a haberdasher in a great way of business, who lived in the same street. The carpenter, a plodding, frugal artisan of the old school, who trusted to indefatigable industry and undeviating sobriety for getting on in life, had an instinctive mistrust of the more dashing and speculative tradesman, and even in the height of his prosperity, looked with cold and distrustful eyes on his son's engagement. Mr. Price's circumstances, however, seemed, and at the time were, so flourishing, his offers so liberal, and his daughter's character so excellent, that to refuse his consent would have been an unwarrantable stretch of authority. All that our prudent carpenter could do was, to delay the union, in hopes that something might still occur to break it off; and when, ten days before the time finally fixed for the marriage, the result of an unsuccessful speculation placed Mr. Price's name in the gazette, most heartily did he congratulate himself on the foresight which, as he hoped, had saved him from the calamity of a portionless daughter-in-law. He had, however, miscalculated the strength of his son's affection for poor Mary, as well as the firm principle of honour which regarded their long and every way sanctioned engagement as a bond little less sacred than wedlock itself; and on Mr. Price's dying within a very few months, of that death which, although not included in the bills of mortality, is yet but too truly recognised by the popular phrase, a broken heart, William Jervis, after vainly trying every mode of appeal to his obdurate father, married the orphan girl—in the desperate hope, that the step once taken, and past all remedy, an only child would find forgiveness for an offence attended by so many extenuating circumstances.

He or

But here, too, William, in his turn, miscalculated the invincible obstinacy of his father's character. dered his son from his house and his presence, dismissed him from his employment, forbade his very name to be mentioned in his hearing, and up to the time at which our story begins, comported himself exactly as if he never had had a child.

William, a dutiful, affectionate son, felt severely the deprivation of his father's affection, and Mary felt for her William; but so far as regarded their worldly concerns, I am almost afraid to say how little they regretted

their changed prospects. Young, healthy, active, wrapt up in each other and in their lovely little girl, they found small difficulty and no hardship in earning-he by his trade, which he was so good a workman as always to command high wages, and she by needle work-sufficient to supply their humble wants; and when the kindness of Walter Price, Mary's brother, who had again opened a shop in the town, enabled them to send their little Susy to a school of a better order than their own funds would have permitted, their utmost ambition seemed gratified.

So far was speedily made known to me. I discovered also that Mrs. Jervis possessed, in a remarkable degree, the rare quality called taste-a faculty which does really appear to be almost intuitive in some minds, let metaphysicians laugh as they may; and the ladies of B———, delighted to find an opportunity of at once exerciseing their benevolence, and procuring exquisitelyfancied caps and bonnets at half the cost which they had been accustomed to pay to the fine yet vulgar milliner who had hitherto ruled despotically over the fashions of the place, did not fail to rescue their new and interesting protégée from the drudgery of sewing white seam, and of poring over stitching and buttonholes.

For some years, all prospered in their little household. Susy grew in stature and in beauty, retaining the same look of intelligence and sweetness which had in her early childhood fascinated all beholders. She ran some risk of being spoilt, (only that, luckily, she was of the grateful, unselfish, affectionate nature which seems unspoilable,) by the admiration of Mrs. Jervis's customers who, whenever she took home their work, would send for the pretty Susan into the parlour, and give her fruit and sweetmeats, or whatever cakes might might be likely to please a childish appetite, which, it was observed, she contrived, whenever she could do so without offence, to carry home to her mother, whose health, always delicate, had lately appeared more than usually precarious. Even her stern grandfather, now become a master builder, and one of the richest tradesmen in the town, had been remarked to look long and wistfully on the lovely little girl as, holding by her father's hand, she tripped lightly to church, although, on that father himself, he never deigned to cast a glance; so that the more acute denizens of B——— used to prognosticate that, although William was disinherited, Mr. Jervis's property would not go out of the family.

So matters continued awhile. Susan was eleven years old, when a stunning and unexpected blow fell upon them all. Walter Price, her kind uncle, who had hitherto seemed as prudent as he was prosperous, became involved in the stoppage of a great Glasgow house, and was obliged to leave the town; whilst her father, having unforunately accepted bills drawn by him, under an assurance that they should be provided for long before they became due, was thrown into prison for the amount. There was, indeed, a distant hope that the affairs of the Glasgow house might come round, or, at least, that Walter Price's concerns might be disentangled from theirs, and, for this purpose, his presence, as a man full of activity and intelligence, was absolutely necessary in Scotland: but this prospect was precarious and distant. In the meantime, William Jervis lay lingering in prison, his creditor relying avowedly on the chance that a rich father could not, for shame, allow his son to perish

there; whilst Mary, sick, helpless, and desolate, was too broken-spirited to venture an application to a quarter, from whence any slight hope that she might otherwise have entertained, was entirely banished by the recollection that the penalty had been incurred through a relation of her own.

"Why should I go to him?" said poor Mary to herself, when referred by Mr. Barnard, her husband's creditor, to her wealthy father-in-law—“ why trouble him? He will never pay my brother's debt: he would only turn me from his door, and, perhaps, speak of Walter And William in a way that would break my heart." And with her little daughter in her hand, she walked slowly back to a small room that she had hired near the gaol, and sat down sadly and heavily to the daily diminishing millinery work, which was now the only resource of the once happy family.

In the afternoon of the same day, as old Mr. Jervis was seated in a little summer-house at the end of his neat garden, gravely smoking his pipe over a tumbler of spirits and water, defiling the delicious odour of his honeysuckles and sweet-briars by the two most atrocious. smells on this earth-the fumes of tobacco and of gin-his meditations, probably none of the most agreeable, were interrupted, first by a modest single knock at the front-door, which, the intermediate doors being open, he heard distinctly, then by a gentle parley, and, lastly, by his old housekeeper's advance up the gravel walk, followed by a very young girl, who approached him hastily yet tremblingly, caught his rough hand with her little one, lifted up a sweet face, where smiles seemed breaking through her tears, and, in an attitude between standing and kneeling-an attitude of deep reverence-faltered, in a low, broken voice, one low, broken word-" Grandfather!"

"How came this child here?" exclaimed Mr. Jervis, endeavouring to disengage the hand which Susan had now secured within both hers-" how dared you let her in, Norris, when you knew my orders respecting the whole family?"

"How dared I let her in ?" returned the housekeeper-" "How could I help it? Don't we all know that there is not a single house in the town where little Susan (heaven bless her dear face!) is not welcome ? Don't the very gaolers themselves let her into the prison before hours and after hours? And don't the sheriff himself, for as strict as he is said to be, sanction it? Speak to your grandfather, Susy love-don't be dashed" and, with this encouraging exhortation, the kindhearted housekeeper retired.

Susan continued, clasping her grandfather's hand, and leaning her face over it as if to conceal the tears which poured down her cheeks like rain.

"What do you want with me, child?" at length interrupted Mr. Jervis in a stern voice. "What brought you here?"

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"Oh, grandfather! Poor father is in prison !" "I did not put him there," observed Mr. Jervis, coldly : you must go to Mr. Barnard on that affair." "Mother did go to him this morning," replied Susan, "and he told her that she must apply to you——'

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"Well!" exclaimed the grandfather, impatiently. "But she said she dared not, angry as you were with her-more especially as it is through uncle Walter's misfortune that all this misery has happened. Mother dared not come to you."

NO XXXVI.-VOL. III.

"She was right enough there," returned Mr. Jervis. "So she sent you ?"

"No, indeed, she knows nothing of my coming. She sent me to carry home a cap to Mrs. Taylor, who lives in the next street, and as I was passing the door it came into my head to knock-and then Mrs. Norris brought me here—Oh, grandfather! I hope I have not done wrong! I hope you are not angry!-but if you were to see how sad and pale poor father looks in that dismal prison; and poor mother, how sick and ill she is, how her hand trembles when she tries to work. Oh, grandfather! if you could but see them you would not wonder at my boldness."

"All this comes of trusting to a speculating knave like Walter Price!" observed Mr. Jervis, rather as a soliloquy than to the child, who, however, heard and replied to the remark.

"He was very kind to me, was uncle Walter! He put me to school to learn reading and writing, and cyphering, and all sorts of needle-work; not a charityschool, because he wished me to be amongst decent children, and not to learn bad ways. And he has written to offer to come to prison himself, if father wished it-only-I don't understand about businessbut even Mr. Barnard says that the best chance of recovering the money is his remaining at liberty; and, indeed, indeed, grandfather, my uncle Walter is not so wicked as you think for---indeed he is not."

"This child is grateful!" was the thought that passed through her grandfather's mind, but he did not give it utterance. He, however, drew her closer to him, and seated her in the summer-house at his side. "So you can read and write, and keep accounts, and do all sorts of needle-work, can you, my little maid? And you can run of errands, doubtless, and are handy about a house. Would you like to live with me and Norris, and make my shirts, and read the newspaper to me of an evening, and learn to make puddings and pies, and be my own little Susan? Eh!---Should you like this?"

"Oh, grandfather!" exclaimed Susan, enchanted. "And water the flowers," pursued Mr. Jervis, “and root out the weeds, and gather the beau-pots? Is not this a nice garden, Susy ?"

"Oh, beautiful! dear grandfather, beautiful!" "And you would like to live with me in this pretty house and this beautiful garden---should you, Susy ?" "Oh, yes, dear grandfather!"

"And never wish to leave me?"

"Oh, never never!"

"Nor to see the dismal gaol again---the dismal, dreary gaol?"

"Never!--but father is to live here too ?" enquired Susan, interrupting herself---father and mother?"

"No!" replied her grandfather..." neither of them. It was you whom I asked to live here with me. I have nothing to do with them, and you must choose between

us."

"They not live here! I to leave my father and my mother---my own dear mother, and she so sick! my own dear father, and he in a gaol! Oh, grandfather, you cannot mean it---you cannot be so cruel!"

"There is no cruelty in the matter, Susan. I give you the offer of leaving your parents, and living with me; but I do not compel you to accept it, You are an intelligent little girl, and perfectly capable of chusing for yourself. But I beg you to take notice that, by reY 2

gentianella blue, which served, by its brillant, yet contrasted colouring, to enhance the brightnes of the brightest complexion. Tripping along to school with her neat covered basket in her chubby hand, the little lass was perfect.

I could not help looking and admiring, and stopping to look; and the pretty child stopped too, and dropped her little curtsy; and then I spoke, and then she spoke, for she was too innocent, too unfearing, too modest to be shy; so that Susy and I soon became acquainted; and in a very few days the acquaintanceship was extended to a fine open-countenanced man, and a sweet-looking and intelligent young woman, Susan's father and mother, one or other of whom used to come almost every evening, to meet their darling on her return from school; for she was an only one, the sole offspring of a marriage of love, which was, I believe, reckoned unfortunate by everybody except the parties concerned; they felt and knew that they were happy.

I soon learnt their simple history. William Jervis, the only son of a rich carpenter, had been attached almost from childhood, to his fair neighbour, Mary Price, the daughter of a haberdasher in a great way of business, who lived in the same street. The carpenter, a plodding, frugal artisan of the old school, who trusted to indefatigable industry and undeviating sobriety for getting on in life, had an instinctive mistrust of the more dashing and speculative tradesman, and even in the height of his prosperity, looked with cold and distrustful eyes on his son's engagement. Mr. Price's circumstances, however, seemed, and at the time were, so flourishing, his offers so liberal, and his daughter's character so excellent, that to refuse his consent would have been an unwarrantable stretch of authority. All that our prudent carpenter could do was, to delay the union, in hopes that something might still occur to break it off; and when, ten days before the time finally fixed for the marriage, the result of an unsuccessful speculation placed Mr. Price's name in the gazette, most heartily did he congratulate himself on the foresight which, as he hoped, had saved him from the calamity of a portionless daughter-in-law. He had, however, miscalculated the strength of his son's affection for poor Mary, as well as the firm principle of honour which regarded their long and every way sanctioned engagement as a bond little less sacred than wedlock itself; and on Mr. Price's dying within a very few months, of that death which, although not included in the bills of mortality, is yet but too truly recognised by the popular phrase, a broken heart, William Jervis, after vainly trying every mode of appeal to his obdurate father, married the orphan girl-in the desperate hope, that the step once taken, and past all remedy, an only child would find forgiveness for an offence attended by so many extenuating circumstances.

He or

But here, too, William, in his turn, miscalculated the invincible obstinacy of his father's character. dered his son from his house and his presence, dismissed him from his employment, forbade his very name to be mentioned in his hearing, and up to the time at which our story begins, comported himself exactly as if he never had had a child.

William, a dutiful, affectionate son, felt severely the deprivation of his father's affection, and Mary felt for her William; but so far as regarded their worldly concerns, I am almost afraid to say how little they regretted

their changed prospects. Young, healthy, active, wrapt up in each other and in their lovely little girl, they found small difficulty and no hardship in earning-he by his trade, which he was so good a workman as always to command high wages, and she by needle work-sufficient to supply their humble wants; and when the kindness of Walter Price, Mary's brother, who had again opened a shop in the town, enabled them to send their little Susy to a school of a better order than their own funds would have permitted, their utmost ambition seemed gratified.

So far was speedily made known to me. I discovered also that Mrs. Jervis possessed, in a remarkable degree, the rare quality called taste-a faculty which does really appear to be almost intuitive in some minds, let metaphysicians laugh as they may; and the ladies of B——, delighted to find an opportunity of at once exerciseing their benevolence, and procuring exquisitelyfancied caps and bonnets at half the cost which they had been accustomed to pay to the fine yet vulgar milliner who had hitherto ruled despotically over the fashions of the place, did not fail to rescue their new and interesting protégée from the drudgery of sewing white seam, and of poring over stitching and buttonholes.

For some years, all prospered in their little household. Susy grew in stature and in beauty, retaining the same look of intelligence and sweetness which had in her early childhood fascinated all beholders. She ran some risk of being spoilt, (only that, luckily, she was of the grateful, unselfish, affectionate nature which seems unspoilable,) by the admiration of Mrs. Jervis's customers who, whenever she took home their work, would send for the pretty Susan into the parlour, and give her fruit and sweetmeats, or whatever cakes might might be likely to please a childish appetite, which, it was observed, she contrived, whenever she could do so without offence, to carry home to her mother, whose health, always delicate, had lately appeared more than usually precarious. Even her stern grandfather, now become a master builder, and one of the richest tradesmen in the town, had been remarked to look long and wistfully on the lovely little girl as, holding by her father's hand, she tripped lightly to church, although, on that father himself, he never deigned to cast a glance; so that the more acute denizens of B- used to prognosticate that, although William was disinherited, Mr. Jervis's property would not go out of the family.

So matters continued awhile. Susan was eleven years old, when a stunning and unexpected blow fell upon them all. Walter Price, her kind uncle, who had hitherto seemed as prudent as he was prosperous, became involved in the stoppage of a great Glasgow house, and was obliged to leave the town; whilst her father, having unforunately accepted bills drawn by him, under an assurance that they should be provided for long before they became due, was thrown into prison for the amount. There was, indeed, a distant hope that the affairs of the Glasgow house might come round, or, at least, that Walter Price's concerns might be disentangled from theirs, and, for this purpose, his presence, as a man full of activity and intelligence, was absolutely necessary in Scotland: but this prospect was precarious and distant. In the meantime, William Jervis lay lingering in prison, his creditor relying avowedly on the chance that a rich father could not, for shame, allow his son to perish

there; whilst Mary, sick, helpless, and desolate, was too broken-spirited to venture an application to a quarter, from whence any slight hope that she might otherwise have entertained, was entirely banished by the recollection that the penalty had been incurred through a relation of her own.

66

Why should I go to him?" said poor Mary to herself, when referred by Mr. Barnard, her husband's creditor, to her wealthy father-in-law-" why trouble him? He will never pay my brother's debt: he would only turn me from his door, and, perhaps, speak of Walter And William in a way that would break my heart." And with her little daughter in her hand, she walked slowly back to a small room that she had hired near the gaol, and sat down sadly and heavily to the daily diminishing millinery work, which was now the only resource of the once happy family.

In the afternoon of the same day, as old Mr. Jervis was seated in a little summer-house at the end of his neat garden, gravely smoking his pipe over a tumbler of spirits and water, defiling the delicious odour of his honeysuckles and sweet-briars by the two most atrocious smells on this earth-the fumes of tobacco and of gin-his meditations, probably none of the most agreeable, were interrupted, first by a modest single knock at the front-door, which, the intermediate doors being open, he heard distinctly, then by a gentle parley, and, lastly, by his old housekeeper's advance up the gravel walk, followed by a very young girl, who approached him hastily yet tremblingly, caught his rough hand with her little one, lifted up a sweet face, where smiles seemed breaking through her tears, and, in an attitude between standing and kneeling-an attitude of deep reverence-faltered, in a low, broken voice, one low, broken word" Grandfather!"

"How came this child here ?" exclaimed Mr. Jervis, endeavouring to disengage the hand which Susan had now secured within both hers-" how dared you let her in, Norris, when you knew my orders respecting the whole family ?"

"How dared I let her in?" returned the housekeeper" How could I help it? Don't we all know that there is not a single house in the town where little Susan (heaven bless her dear face!) is not welcome? Don't the very gaolers themselves let her into the prison before hours and after hours? And don't the sheriff himself, for as strict as he is said to be, sanction it? Speak to your grandfather, Susy love-don't be dashed:" and, with this encouraging exhortation, the kindhearted housekeeper retired.

Susan continued, clasping her grandfather's hand, and leaning her face over it as if to conceal the tears which poured down her cheeks like rain.

"What do you want with me, child?" at length interrupted Mr. Jervis in a stern voice. "What brought

you here?"

“Oh, grandfather! Poor father is in prison!"

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"I did not put him there," observed Mr. Jervis, coldly: you must go to Mr. Barnard on that affair." "Mother did go to him this morning," replied Susan, "and he told her that she must apply to you——”

"Well!" exclaimed the grandfather, impatiently. "But she said she dared not, angry as you were with her-more especially as it is through uncle Walter's misfortune that all this misery has happened. Mother dared not come to you."

NO XXXVI. VOL. III.

"She was right enough there," returned Mr. Jervis. "So she sent you ?"

"No, indeed, she knows nothing of my coming. She sent me to carry home a cap to Mrs. Taylor, who lives in the next street, and as I was passing the door it came into my head to knock-and then Mrs. Norris brought me here—Oh, grandfather! I hope I have not done wrong! I hope you are not angry!—but if you were to see how sad and pale poor father looks in that dismal prison; and poor mother, how sick and ill she is, how her hand trembles when she tries to work. Oh, grandfather! if you could but see them you would not wonder at my boldness."

"All this comes of trusting to a speculating knave like Walter Price!" observed Mr. Jervis, rather as a soliloquy than to the child, who, however, heard and replied to the remark.

"He was very kind to me, was uncle Walter! He put me to school to learn reading and writing, and cyphering, and all sorts of needle-work; not a charityschool, because he wished me to be amongst decent children, and not to learn bad ways. And he has written to offer to come to prison himself, if father wished it-only-I don't understand about businessbut even Mr. Barnard says that the best chance of recovering the money is his remaining at liberty; and, indeed, indeed, grandfather, my uncle Walter is not so wicked as you think for---indeed he is not."

"This child is grateful!" was the thought that passed through her grandfather's mind, but he did not give it utterance. He, however, drew her closer to him, and seated her in the summer-house at his side. "So you can read and write, and keep accounts, and do all sorts of needle-work, can you, my little maid? And you can run of errands, doubtless, and are handy about a house. Would you like to live with me and Norris, and make my shirts, and read the newspaper to me of an evening, and learn to make puddings and pies, and be my own little Susan? Eh!---Should you like this?"

"Oh, grandfather!" exclaimed Susan, enchanted. "And water the flowers," pursued Mr. Jervis, "and root out the weeds, and gather the beau-pots ? Is not this a nice garden, Susy ?"

"Oh, beautiful! dear grandfather, beautiful!" "And you would like to live with me in this pretty house and this beautiful garden---should you, Susy ?" Oh, yes, dear grandfather!"

64

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"They not live here! I to leave my father and my mother---my own dear mother, and she so sick! my own dear father, and he in a gaol! Oh, grandfather, you cannot mean it---you cannot be so cruel!"

"There is no cruelty in the matter, Susan. I give you the offer of leaving your parents, and living with me; but I do not compel you to accept it, You are an intelligent little girl, and perfectly capable of chusing for yourself. But I beg you to take notice that, by re

Y 2

maining with them, you will not only share, but increase their poverty; whereas, with me you will not only enjoy every comfort yourself, but relieve them from the burthen of your support."

"It is not a burthen," replied Susan, firmly---“ I know that, young, and weak, and ignorant as I am now, I am yet of some use to my dear mother---and of some comfort to my dear father; and every day I shall grow older and stronger, and more able to be a help to them both. And leave them! to live here in plenty, whilst they were starving! to be gathering posies, whilst they were in prison! Oh, grandfather! I should die of the very thought. I thank you for your offer," continued she, rising, and dropping her little curtsy--"but my choice is made. Good evening grandfather!" "Don't be in such a hurry, Susy," rejoined her grandfather, shaking the ashes from his pipe, taking the last sip of his gin and water, and then proceeding to adjust his hat and wig--" Don't be in such a hurry: you and I shan't part so easily. You're a dear little girl, and since you won't stay with me, I must e'en go with you. The father and mother who brought up such a child, must be worth bringing home. So, with your good leave Miss Susan, we'll go and fetch them.'

- And, in the midst of Susy's rapturous thanks, her kisses, and her tears, out they sallied; and the money was paid, and the debtor released, and established with his overjoyed wife, in the best room of Mr. Jervis's pretty habitation, to the unspeakable gratitude of the whole party, and the extatic delight of the CARPENTER S DAUGHTER. Friendship's Offering, 1834.

WEDDED LOVE:

"Not sacred more than fond."

THERE is a love! 'tis not the wandering fire
That must be fed on folly, or expire;
Gleam of polluted hearts, the meteor ray
That fades as rises Reason's nobler day;
But passion made essential, holy, bright,
Like the rais'd dead, our dust transform'd to light.
Earth has its pangs for all; its happiest breast
Not his who meets them least, but bears them best.
Life must be toil! yet oh, that toil how drear!
But for this soother of its brief career.
The charm that virtue, beauty, fondness bind,
Till the mind mingles with its kindred mind!
'Tis not the cold iomancer's ecstacy,
The flame new lit at every passing eye,
But the high impulse that the stately onl
Feels slow engross it, but engross it whole;
Yet seeks it not, nay, turns with stern disdain
On its own weakness that can wear a chain;
Still wrestling with the angel, till its pride
Feels all the strength departed from its side.
Then join'd, and join'd for ever, loving, lov'd,
Life's darkest hours are met, and met unmov'd;
Hand link'd in hand, the wedded pair pass on
Thro' the world's changes, still unchanging, one;
On earth, one heart, one hope, one joy, one gloom,
One closing hour, one undivided tomb!

A MOUNTAIN STORY.

Croly.

In one of the most picturesque parts of the western Highlands of Scotland stands an inn, which is much

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frequented by travellers. This inn itself adds considerably to the beauty of the landscape. It was formerly a manor-house; and the sedate grandeur of its appearance is in such good keeping with the scenes in its neighbourhood, and so little in accordance with its present appropriation, that travellers more monly stop at the gate to inquire the way to the inn, than drive up at once through the green field which is spread before its windows, and its fine flight of stone steps. Very few dwellings are to be seen from it; and those few are mere cottages, chiefly inhabited by the fishermen of the loch. One of these cottages is my dwelling. It stands so near to the inn, that I can observe all that goes forward there; but it is so overshadowed and hidden by trees, that I doubt not the greater portion of the visitors to the inn are quite unaware that such a cottage is in existence; and of the thousand sketches which artists and amateurs have carried away with them, perhaps not one bears any trace of the lower chimneys, or the humble porch of my dwelling. I consider it a great privilege to have the power of watching the proceedings of my temporary neighbours, without being exposed to observation in return; and rich is the harvest of fact and conjecture, which summer after summer affords to my curiosity. While I sit in my window-sill, watching the fishermen putting off for their day's excursion, my attention is often attracted by parties of travellers, strolling along the banks of the loch, while they are waiting for breakfast; and when I am at my evening task of watering my roses, I frequently overhear the remarks of those that yet linger abroad, to see the grey shadows shroud one mountain top after another, from the view of the gazer. I have watched the progress of many a sketch, when the artist has been seated at the foot of one of my own trees; and picked up various poetical scraps, which have been flung away by their discontented authors, or dropt by the 'rapt, and consequently careless, lover of Nature. Many groups of fashionable tourists have excited my pity, by their languid industry in seeing all that is worthy of being seen: many a tradesman have I observed enjoying his pipe and his whiskey-and-water, while his spouse and daughters were filling their baskets with shells and sea-weed. have sometimes disturbed the dreams of young poets, who lay half asleep on a sunny bank, which slopes down to the rippling waters; and sometimes I have scared half-a-dozen little girls, who, having escaped from their governess, were paddling without shoes and stockings, and with their petticoats tucked up to the knees, in a bright pool, which looks temptingly private, but is yet sure to be found out by every little-one who comes within half a mile of it. There is a certain water-fall also, which seems to possess a similar attraction for lovers. Let them arrive as late as they will in the evening, they are sure to visit the waterfall before breakfast the next morning. Many a modest blush have I seen reflected in the basin of that waterfall many a conscious pair have started at my appearance there. If I were to give an account of all the visitors who, from some particular circumstances, have excited a lasting interest in me, I should never have done. It is my purpose to relate one only of the many interesting events which have occurred since I took up my abode in this place. My reasons for selecting this one are that it made a peculiarly strong impression on

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