stance; and there was the direct bantering allusion, suggested often, also, by the most unlikely things; but, in the joyful excitement that prevailed, everything took, and everything was instantly understood, as if by intuition, however indirect or obscure the connection might be. Yet, in this overflowing cup of happiness there was, after all, one drop of bitterness, and that drop fell to the lot of Brooks. Tom Merton-his morose and malicious nature in no way softened by the joy he saw around him, but on the contrary, having its evil energies increased by itcontinued to avail himself of every opportunity of taunting Brooks with his new title, this having become with him a favourite mode of provocation,-an art in which he excelled, and which he delighted to practise. The word "captain," always pronounced with an expression of the most bitter contempt, was never out of his mouth, whether he addressed Brooks himself, or had occasion to allude to him when speaking to others and this last part of his conduct, in particular, Brooks felt to be especially offensive. He bore it all, however, with the utmost magnanimity, although it cost him many a severe struggle to practise this virtue under the provocation he endured; and often did he find himself almost in the act of springing on his heartless insulter, to trample him beneath his feet-a feat which, as he was by far the more powerful man of the two, he could easily have accomplished; but the recollection of his promise to Mary never failed, on these occasions, to allay his wrath and to restrain his arm. But it was impossible that this could lastthat a system of determined persecution on the one hand, and of passive sufferance on the other, especially with such a spirit as Brooks', could long endure. Human nature was unequal to it; and it was alarmingly probable that some serious consequences would one day ensue from it. These consequences did ensue, and in a most appalling shape; and it is now for us to say what they were. the captain!" And he laughed contemptuously while he spoke. Brooks coloured a little at these studied insults, rendered more intolerable by the circumstances under which they were offered, being evidently calculated to place him in a ludicrous light before his friends. He took no notice of them, however, but sat down, and endeavoured to be as merry as his companions, who were all in great spirits. They as might be expected, treated themselves to some jokes at his expense, in allusion to the approaching event; and Brooks not only bore them with great good humour, but gave them himself additional point, by a clever application of a ready and natural wit, which he possessed in a very remarkable degree; and so pleased did he soon become, both with himself and his friends, in despite of the disheartening circumstance attending his first entrance into the room, that he almost forgot, in the merriment which followed, the insulting conduct of Merton; and would, perhaps, have entirely forgotten it, had not the latter repeated it more than once in the course of the evening. The party sat for two or three hours; and in that time, had drank a considerable quantity, although none of them were at all of dissipated habits; but the approaching marriage of their friend Brooks, and the unexpectedness of their meeting, was thought a sufficient excuse for a little extra indulgence on this occasion. On leaving the house in which they had been enjoying themselves, the two friends of Brooks and Merton accompanied them some distance on their way home. At parting, the former happened to remain for an instant behind the latter, to speak to one of the young men with whom he had spent the evening, when Merton, impatient of the delay thus occasioned, called out to Brooks"Captain, I say, are you coming?" "Yes, I am coming, Merton," replied Brooks, haughtily, if not somewhat fiercely; his natural irascibility of temper excited `at once by the liquor he had drank, though by no means intoxicated, and the insults he had received during the evening. "I am coming," he said, approaching Merton while he spoke; "and, friend Merton," he went on, after he had joined him, and the two were proceeding on their way together-"I would advise you to drop that sneering manner of yours towards me, in the presence of other people; or," he said, "you may fare all the worse for it. You have insulted me this night repeatedly, as you have often done be fore; but beware of broken bones. Now, there's a bit of my mind for you, my lad," he added; "and I will tell you more, Mertonif it had not been on your sister's account, I would have taught you better manners long since. intended I've borne too much from you; but, blow me, if I bear it any longer, let what may be the consequence." On the day preceding that fixed for the celebration of his marriage, Brooks went to town, a distance of about three miles, to make some final purchases for the approaching occasion; and with these he was about returning home, when, as he passed the window of a public-house, at the extremity of the town, some one inside tapped on the glass and beckoned him to come in. Readily obeying the invitation, Brooks entered the apartment where the signal had been made, and there found two intimate friends, who were amongst the number of those invited to be present at the ceremony on the ensuing day; and along with them was, to Brooks' surprise, and not a little to his regret and disappointment, his neighbour and brother-in-law, Merton, who, the moment the former entered the apartment, cried out, with his usual sneer-"Oh! here comes the captain-make way for the captain-off hats to "So, so, captain," said Merton, with one of his bitterest and most contemptuous sneers; "you are getting large upon it" At this moment, Brooks, excited to fury by this cool repetition of the offensive term, and forgetting, in one instant, all that he had promised and all that he had resolved, seized Merton by the throat and exclaiming"What! captain again, Merton-captain again!" shook him fiercely, then dashed him violently to the earth, and, in the whirlwind of his passion, planted his foot, while he lay there, with such tremendous force on the stomach, as almost instantly deprived him of life. One appalling groan announced to the wretched survivor the fearful crime he had committed. Overwhelmed with horror, he flung himself on the body of his murdered companion; and, in the madness of his agony, implored his Creator to deprive him of a life which he could now no longer endure. The unhappy man saw, in one instant, all the horrors of his dreadful situation. He saw himself, by the perpetration of one rash act and, in the space of a very few moments, hurled from the summit of human felicity to the very lowest depths of human suffering and misery. A few minutes before, he could have defied the world-a few minutes before, he feared the face of no man-a few minutes before, he was innocent of crime, respected and esteemed by all who knew him. Now, what a change in his position! Now, he should be an outcast from society; loathed, shurned, and abhorred by men, and an object of the sternest vengeance of the laws of his God and his country. Now, he was to tremble at the approach of the meanest and most insignifilcant of the human race, and to look no more in the face of man but with shame, and fear, and trembling; for now his hands were red with murder. The unfortunate, the miserable man, thought of all this, till he felt his brain burning as if it were a mass of molten lead, and untli his senses reeled under the distracting pressure of these harrowing reflections. But, horrible and withering as these reflections were, there were others yet more so. To-morrow was to have been his wedding-day. To-morrow, the greatest happiness of which human nature is capable was to have been his. But, alas! now, to-morrow would, in all probability, find him the inmate of a dungeon, a fettered felon, bound down to await the stroke of the sword of justice; and, anon, the wretched man's thoughts turned on his unfortunate Mary, and, in the reflections associated with that beloved be ing, he experienced a sense of misery that threatened to unseat his reason. Prompted, however, by that instinct of selfpreservation, and the natural horror of a violent and ignominous death-which he had no doubt awaited him if taken-common to all men, the unfortunate man now sought to escape the penal consequences of his crime by flight. Without knowing whither he went, or whither he should go, he rushed wildly from the fatal spot-the scene of his dreadful crime; and, avoding all paths and frequented places, flew across the neighbouring fields, regardless of the falls, contusions, and other injuries which he was every moment receiving, in consequence of the ruggedness of the route which he pursued, and was lost to human observation. Availing ourselves of this circumstance, we will change the scene for a time, and make the relations of the murderer and his victim the subjects of our narrative. We will not, however, attempt to describe either the feelings of these unfortunate persons, or the appalling scene which their once happy homes presented, when the intelligence of the horrid catastrophe above recorded reached them. Loud and long continued, and heart-rending was the weeping, and wailing, and lamentation that was then heard within their once peaceful and cheerful abodes; and deep, deep was the mourning of the stricken families who inhabited them. The mothers deplored the fate of their unfortunate sons with the loud and unutterable grief that marks the sorrowing of the female heart under sudden affliction. The fathers groaned inwardly; and though they restrained the expressions of their sorrow, yet keenly did they feel that the chastening hand of God had, indeed, fallen heavily upon them. But there was one in these houses of mourning on whom the dreadful intelligence had yet a more dismal effect than on even the mothers that bore the unfortunates, whose fate all were deploring. This one was Mary Merton. On hearing the fearful tale she uttered a piercing shriek, staggered a few paces, and sunk senseless on the floor. In this condition she was carried to bed, where she lay for nearly an entire hour so still and motionless-not the slightest respiration even being perceptible-that the distracted parents thought that she, too, had been taken from them. But it was not sobetter it had. Mary awoke from her lethargy; but her reason was fled. On opening her eyes, she perceived her weeping and heart-broken mother hanging over her; and, after gazing on her earnestly for some time "Mother," she said emphatically, but in a faint and low voice, "I have had a fearful dream." And she fixed her eyes wildly on her terrified parent. "A fearful dream, mother," she repeated. "But, hush, hush," she added, hurriedly, "there's James and my brother coming, and I don't wish them to hear it, they would laugh at me." Here the unfortunate girl assumed for a moment the attitude of one listening attentively, and then resumed-"Oh; it's nobody after all; so I'll tell you, mother, what I dreamt. I dreamt that James had murdered Tom--our own Tom, mother; I saw him weltering in his blood, with a dreadful gash in his forehead, and James standing over him with a naked sword. Did ever any one hear such nonsense, mother?" said the poor deranged girl, and she laughed hysterically. "But this is not the whole of it, mother," she shortly afterwards went on: "I dreamt, I dreamt," and she laughed louder and louder as she spoke, "that I saw a gibbet, mother, a great black ugly looking thing, with an immense crowd of people around it, and they were waiting to see the man who was to be hanged on it, and I was waiting too amongst the rest. Well, the man came at last, mother, all clad in white, and he was surrounded with a great number of fearful looking men, with naked swords in their hands-and, mother! mother!" she said, suddenly lowering her voice, and assuming a look of horror-"who do you think this man was?" Here she seized her afflicted parent by the hand, with a convulsive grasp, drew her towards her, and whispered in her ear -"As God is to be my judge, mother, the man I saw on the scaffold, all in white, was no other than James Brooks, my own dear James." Then suddenly flinging her moth er's hand from her, she burst into a loud fit of laughter, and again inquired, "if any one ever heard of so strange and ridiculous a dream?" The poor girl's strength, however, was unable longer to support this violent excitement, and she again sunk into a state of the most profound apathy, in which she continued for the next twenty-four hours. At the end of this period she appeared more composed, and seemed to have gained a little accession of strength; but the vacant and unquiet expression of her eye but too plainly indicated that reason had not returned. It never did return. But her derangement had already assumed the character which it was ever afterwards to bear. It was marked by great gentleness of manners, and by a mild and melancholy tone speech. of When the unfortunate girl awoke the second time she started hurriedly from her bed, and gently reproved her mother for allowing her to sleep so long. "Dear mother," she said, "why did you not awake me sooner, when you know I had so much to do? Did you forget, mother," she added, smiling, as if the thing was incredible, "that this is my bridal day, and James expects to find me dressed early? He'll be here immediately; and what can I say to him, mother, if he finds me in this state?" Having said this she proceeded to the drawers where her wedding clothes were deposited, and began to dress herself with great care and neatness-an employment in which her parents, judging it best to allow her to indulge her fancy, would not permit her to be interrupted, nor the slightest hint to be given that should have any tendency to dispel the illusion. On completing her toilet, which she did as perfectly and correctly as if she had been in full possession of her judgment, and having made, with equal accuracy and propriety, some other domestic arrangements which would really have been required had the ceremony of her marriage actually been to take place, she seated herself in an arm chair and seemed to await the arrival of the wedding party; and a more melancholy, or more affecting sight than the poor girl presented -thus bedizened, and thus expecting what was never to happen-cannot, we think, be very readily conceived. Beautiful, exceedingly beautiful she still looked, though pale, nay, white as her own bridal robes, and though now at once sad and vacant was the expression of that soft blue eye, that once beamed with tenderness and love. It was a striking, nay, an awful sight: for, to increase its appalling effect, she sat motionless, and this for hours, with her eye intently fixed on the door of the apartment, as if in momentary expectation of some one entering. But, of course, they came not. Yet, day after day, for weeks, ay, for months afterwards, did the poor decayed girl go through precisely the same process as that we have described, and wondering each day as freshly as if she had not been disappointed before "What could be keeping James, and the rest of the people," and to soothe her her distracted mind, new reasons were every day assigned for their non-appearance. In course of time, however, she began gradually to desist from arraying herself in this manner; but, for ten years after, when her death took place, she employed herself constantly, and for whole days together, in preparing and arranging her bridal clothescutting down, or ripping up at one time, and sewing together, or altering, at another; and for these ten years, every returning sun, as poor Mary imagined, brought about her bridal day, and found her singing such scraps of old songs as the following: Oh! my true love, he speer'd at me And my true love, he swore to me And I have said to my true love, Until the day I dee. To the melancholy story of Mary Merton there falls now little to be added; for, although a principal personage of the tale, whose subsequent fate the reader, it is presumed, will feel some curiosity to know, has not been accounted for, his story, the remainder of it any rate, is short. From the night of the murder James Brooks was ever heard tell of; and he thus, at all events, escaped the last penalty of the law, which he would assuredly have suffered had he been taken. It was supposed by some that he had found his way abroad; by others that he had been drowned, either by accident or by his own act and died on the very night the murder was committed, as, from that hour, he had never been seen by any one. As neither of these conjectures, however, were ever supported by any evidence of their accuracy, the subsequent fate of James Brooks remains a mystery, and will, in all probability, ever continue to be so. Scottish Societies NEW YORK SCOTTISH SOCIETY. Donald MacDougall, B. D. Dear Sir and Editor: It affords me great pleasure to write. I thank you for your fair and just criticism of the talent at our Burns concert held on January 20th. It is unnecessary to draw comparison with that of the "Musical," (if I might use the word) critic, of another Scottish paper, who tried to belittle one of the finest and purest contralto singers in this and many cities, and a beautiful interpreter of Scottish songs, a particular study of which she has made. As a student of song, I know a little of what I am writing about. It is a well known fact that the New York Scottish Society tries to give the best night of Scottish song at their annual Burns concert, and usually succeed, and this last one, as you kindly said, was of the highest and best. You spoke justly of all the talent and our Reverend speaker, and showed good judgment, and for which I, member of the Choral Union and Scottish Society, thank you. I trust you may find a small space to put this in your next issue. WILLIAM Crawford. A meeting of the New York Scottish Society was held on the evening of February 1st. There was a good turnout of the members. Donald G. C. Sinclair, President of the Caledonian Hospital Society, was installed into membership. As treasurer of Amusement Committee, William Peter G. Jeffreys reported a handsome surplus from the Burns concert. After the usual business had been gone through with, some very interesting and entertaining readings were given by John McDougall, M. D., Mr. J. McNabb and Mr. Andrew Gillies. With this a very pleasant evening was brought to a close. The New York Scottish Society held a social meeting at its pleasant rooms, 9 East 59th street, on Monday evening, February 15th, 1909. There was a large gathering of the members with their wives, daughters and friends and a happy hour was spent in renewing acquaintances. The President, Mr. John Duncan, then called for order and we listened to an excellent musical program. "The Irving Ma'e Quartette" gave a humorous song, Miss MacGregor sang "Augus MacDonald" very feelingly. The Choral Union then sang "The Lass of Gowrie" and "My Love is but a Lassie Yet," Mr. Arthur R. Boote gave two songs, and Mr. Samuel Morrell, formerly called "the boy soprano" pleased his hearers by two songs sung in a rich tenor. Miss Annie Tully sang "Loch Lomond" and was heartily encored. Mr. Frederick Smythe the successful leader of the Choral Union, sang "Mary of Argyll. The Union also gave two more songs, and all present were delighted with their stirring music. After this fine programme refreshments were served, and some of the music from the piano and violin called many to the dance. This was enjoyed most thoroughly by the young people, and several of maturer years also joined in the fascinating recreation. The Scottish Society is certainly a very delightful host, and the "Ladies' Nights" are eagerly anticipated by all who are so favored as to receive an invitation. The annual banquet of the society is to be held at the Brevoort House on Friday evening, March 26th. It will be a notable social event. Detroit, Mich., February 3rd, 1909. THE CALEDONIAN. 83 Bible Building, New York, N. Y. I herewith send you our programme of our Burns Concert under the auspices of St. Andrews Society, Detroit, Mich., in celebration of the 150th anniversary of the birth of Scotland's immortal Bard, held January 28, 1909. It was the best we ever had. Connected with St. Andrews Society is a Drill Corps uniformed in kilts. The Corps waited upon the audience in full uniform and very much pleased the audience of about three thousand people. Our pipe band of nine members in kilts contributed largely to the pleasure of the evening. We had a foreign talent from Scotland, Annie McKay, J. M. Hamilton, Ruby Seath Grant, and Fred Barclay, who all rendered their parts with very great ability, eliciting from the audience great commendation. I thought you would like to know the condition of Scottish affairs somewhat in Detroit so send you the programme. I am much pleased with the CALEDONIAN. Very truly yours, RONALD SOTT KELLIE. PROGRAM PART I. Overture-Scottish Orchestra 1 Selections ......International Pipe Band 2 Scotch Reel-Juveniles 9 Dance-Lorne Reel-Juveniles Mary Helen Teagan, Robbie Gerrie, Harry Haystead 10 Trio (Humorous)-Wha'll Shut the Door Miss Grant, Messrs. Hamilton and Barclay 11 Finale-Auld Lang Syne.......Company BURNS' CONCERT, 1909-COMMITTEE. General Committee of ArrangementsAlexander Watson, chairman; Dr. T. Rodger, secretary; John Smith, treasurer; John Henry, W. R. Carnegie, R. S. Rankin, C. M. Preston, Dr. J. F. Mackenzie, A. M. Kerr, W. A. V. Edward, Thomas Leadbeater. Advertising Comimttee-Richard Lindsay, chairman; Robert S. Rankin, James Kerr, James S. Nelson, Hugh Turner, Dr. G. P. Johnson, J. W. Richardson, John Fairgrieve. Ticket and Door Committee-A. B. Campbell, chairman; James S. Watson, Henry Gordon, W. A. V. Edward, George A. L. Watson, Charles McDonald, Charles R. Robert son. Dancing and Floor Committee John Hanlin, chairman; W. Douglas Waugh, George Hallyday, R. S. Rankin, George Brown. Talent Committee-John Smith, chairman; Thomas Ginn, John Brown, Peter Wilson, A. D. Smith, Neil McEwan, John A. Rolf. Decoration Comimttee-John Donaldson, chairman; Robert Watson, W. C. Cowan, Cloak Room Committee-Donald McLeod, chairman; Robert Haystead, George McRobbie, Nivin McKenzie. Printing Committee-James T. Little, chairman; S. H. Palmer, W. C. Cowan, Cameron Miller, Peter Grant, William Symons, Charles Goodenow, David Dick. Entertainment of Talent and Guests Com mittee-Ronald S. Kellie, chairman; Dr. F. E. Scott, D. S. Sutherland, George P. Codd, David B. Stewart, Richard Watson, Capt. Alexander McKay, Harry Starkey, William B. Brown. Refreshment Committee-James Campbell, chairman; G. E. Walterhouse, Thomas Husselman, J. J. Ferguson, S. G. Henry. Ushers-Robert Schram, chairman; Hugh Anderson, John Brown, Charles Bruce, James Wood, Thomas D. Leadbeatter, Charles A. McDonald, John Jackson, Alexander Grant, S. G. Henry, Thomas A. Hussel-" man, John Henry, James Rule, John R. Gunn, G. E. Walternouse, T. F. McLaren, Bruce Inglis, William Walker, Archie Leadbeater, Norman McLeod, Cyrus Somerville, Richard Lindsay, Donald M. Cuthill, R. S. Kellie, Dr. G. S. Field, Donald McLeod, John Hanlin, Douglas Waugh, Thomas Ginn, Charles M. Preston, Charles Goodenow, Monte Nairn, David Binney, Archie Stewart, Cameron Miller, W. A. V. Edward, W. C. Cowan, Albert McRobbie, Hugh Turner, W. J. Gilmore, Donald Mackenzie, George A. L. Watson, Alvin B. Hicks, James Campbell, George G. McKay, John J. Ferguson, W. H. Lindsay, Dr. J. R. Kirkwood, D. Masterton, W. H. Lindsay, Dr. F. E. Scott. R. S. Rankin, stage manager. OFFICERS OF ST. ANDREWS SOCIETY, 1909. First Vice-President-John Smith. Auditors-Silas Palmer, J. M. Inverarity, W. A. V. Edward. Chaplain-Alexander Wood. Honorary Chaplains-Rev. A. H. Cameron, Rev. D. I. Sutherland, Rev. Alex Urquhart, Rev. Marcus Scott, Rev. Mac H. Wallace. Physicians-G. P. Johnston, M. D., W. R. Henderson, M. D., P. M. Campbell, M. D., G. S Field, M. D., Don M. Campbell, M. D., E. B. Smith, M. D. Librarian-William Murray. Conductor-Donald McLeod. Seneschal-George Brown. OVATION FOR LAUDER. Harry Lauder, the comedian, closed his second American tour at Blaney's Lincoln Square Theatre, New York, Tuesday evening, Feb. 16, with a remarkable ovation. The theatre was crowded with admirers of the comedian before the curtain rose. Speculators on the sidewalk obtained as high as $5 and $10 for seats. Lauder came on directly after the intermission, which was set ahead to nine o'clock, the first part of the programme being cut short on account of the expected demonstration. He was kept on by the loud applause |