the destruction of all those schemes which Frank's fancy loved to form. At the inn they found the Baillie, to whom Campbell paid the debt, the promise of which had allured him to accompany Frank in this perilous journey. The conversation of M-Gregor Campbell, by which his character in this story is developed, as well as by his extraordinary actions, our limits do not allow us to detail. We are presenting the bare outlines of the story, and, except so far as this can gratify the least improving part of curiosity, the reader must adjourn to the work itself to see the living manners of the times depictured. It was concerted by the Highlanders to give an entertainment to the strangers before they parted. This was done on an eminence, and on a most striking and romantic spot. Here Helen presented to Frank a ring, which Miss Vernon had desired her to give, with her last request that he should forget her for ever. "And can she suppose it possible?" said Frank involuntarily : "All may be forgotten," was the reply of this extraordinary woman,-" all but the sense of dishonour and the desire of vengeance.' They were accompanied by Campbell part of the way back, and arrived at Glasgow late the same night, where Frank found, and was joyfully received by, not only Owen, but also his father. At the time they were leaving Glasgow, the rebellion which broke out in 1715 had begun. Through some hazard they travelled to London, where Frank obtained a commission, and levied a company at his father's expense. His uncle was persuaded, with all his sons, to join the standard of rebellion. He made his will, bequeathing his estate to his sons successively, excepting Rashleigh, whom for his altered politics he cut off, and in case of their failure he made Frank his next heir. These hopeful sons met suitable deaths; that is, as they had lived so they died. The old gentleman was taken prisoner and confined in the Tower, and Frank had the pious duty of attending and consoling bis last hours. After a time, by his father's wish, Frank goes down to take possession of the estate. He called at Justice Inglewood's, who, at dinner, requested him to toast poor Di. Vernon, who was transplanted to a convent, and upon the expression of surprise, he coolly, with a What, don't you know? told him, that the person called His Excellency, and who acted the old priest at Osbaldistone-Hall, was Sir Francis Vernon, and that this secret, known by Rashleigh, made Miss Vernon keep something like civil terms with the man she had most reason to contemp, on account of the danger to which her father would otherwise be exposed. Our sagacious readers, if they have been at fault before, will here be able to explain some of the preceding mysteries. The next morning, Frank rode over to the Hall, into which the wary old butler slowly admitted him; and was apparently confused by an order to prepare a fire in the Library: no evasion could induce Frank to relinquish this wish, excited by so many interesting associations, and he was astonished to find the room already prepared, as if in use. In the evening there suddenly entered the room from behind the tapestry, Sir F. Vernon, leaning on his daughter's arms. The officious Andrew, while they were claiming the protection of their friend, opened the door, and though it was instantly shut, saw the persons who were standing before his master. They had taken refuge here till a tried friend could find means to convey them abroad. What the servant had seen, he had immediately reported, and it was the cause of the father, the daughter, and Frank being seized, by warrant, by Jobson and others, with their inveterate enemy Rashleigh Osbaldistone. As these persons were conveying their prisoners away, they were attacked, defeated, Rashleigh mortally wounded, by Campbell and a select party of his Highlanders, who were coming to conduct away their friends; Frank, in consequence, left in undisturbed possession of the estate, and Sir Frederick and his daughter conveyed safely to the sea-side, whence they soon reached France. The father, worn-out with privation and fatigue, shortly after died, wishing his daughter to take the veil, but she listened more willingly to other proposals, and in the compliance long contributed to the happiness of Sir Francis Osbaldistone's life. K. ON THE CULTURE OF TURNIPS. IN the year 1799 I first possessed a garden in the parish of Sutton in Ashfield, on a lime-stone soil: in the spring of that year I sowed in it some early turnips: some of the seed had accidentally been dropped on the path, beside the bed, and I was surprised to find that the plants which grew there were better and forwarder than those on the bed itself. Being desirous of ascertaining whether this was the effect of accident or not, I next year trampled one half of a bed sown with turnips, several times over, and I continued to trample it as I occasionally went into the garden till the turnips came up, and till the ground became as solid as a beaten path. In four or five weeks the superiority of the turnips growing on the trodden part to those growing on the remainder, which were treated in the common way, was astonishing to all beholders. A neighbour, to whom I showed them, and who had been brought up a farmer, told me, that he remembered to have seen a turnip-field into which a roller had been drawn immediately after the turnips were sown, and suffered to remain there for some days, and then drawn out of the field. He said, that the best turnips were in the place where the roller had stood; and that they were evidently better in the line over which the roller had passed, than in any other part of the field. This account, confirmed by the accident and experiment I have related, convinced me that pressure was favourable to the growth of turnips, and encouraged me to continue the practice from that time to this, and it has been uniformly successful. During that period I have twice varied my practice, and I have not succeeded equally well. a This year I rolled the land after it was sown more than ten times over with a stone-roller two feet in length, and almost two cwt. in weight, and crop sown on the 20th of May was very fine. I sold many of the turnips at a halfpenny each, which was below the price of three-pence per peck, before they had come to maturity. Two of these turnips were sent to the AGRICULTURAL MEETING held at SOUTHWELL, in October, and I attended there to explain to the members my practice and ideas on the subject. There I learned from Richard Millward, a considerable and very respectable farmer at Thurgarton, in that neighbourhood, a fact, which seems to me strongly to confirm the theory I have founded on my own experience, that pressure is beneficial to turnips. He related, that some years ago, he had occasion to drive a flock of sheep through a part of a field which had been recently sown with turnips, and the crop which grew on the part so trodden was better than the crop which grew on any other part of the field. I sowed a second crop this year on the third of July; this land was never dug at all, but the weeds were shoveled from the surface and burned, the ashes were mixed with some soil or scourings of the road; the seed was dibbled on the solid surface, and then the compost above-mentioned was spread on the surface: the plants arising from this sowing flourished greatly, and more uninteruptedly than those of the crop sown in May; but this may have been owing to the weather, which was on the whole more genial. It fit well known, that the success of turnip-crops on limestone and loamy land is much more precarious than on sandy land. I am inclined to attribute these failures to the want of affinity between soil and manure, and the natural tendency of the former soils to form themselves into lumps, into which the small fibres of the turnips are not able to find their way, or gain sufficient anchorage when the seed is spent which supports them in time of smooth leaf: thus, being deprived of the nourishment which they ought to derive from the soil and the manure commixed with it, they languish, and become a prey to the fly, which always destroys the most sickly plants; and if they escape the fly, they are less able, from want of health and vigour, to resist any unfavourable change of the season which may happen to occur. If I am right in supposing this to be a cause of failure, it is, I think, very easy to account for the uniform success with which my practice has been attended, by its counteracting and preventing the disposition in the land to run into that state, which I suppose to be so unfavourable to the growth of turnips in their infant state. I have thus detailed, as shortly as I am able, my experience for eighteen years, and my opinion on the causes of my success and although, I confess, that experiments made in a garden are not always implicitly to be relied upon as examples for the management of a field, yet, I cannot but hope, that they are such as deserve the notice of every farmer, and ought to induce him to try the effect of them on a larger scale than my means have allowed me an opportunity of doing. At all events, I think I am performing a public duty, in publishing an accidental discovery, which appears to me, to promise a very great improvement in the agriculture of limestone and loamy land. Sutton, 2d Mo. 1818. S. HALL. • The writer of the above valuable information intimates, in a private note, that he is preparing machinery for the purpose of sowing and cultivating turnips on the plan suggested in the above, and will be happy to exhibit a model thereof, with any further ex. planation that the enquirer might wish.--ED. NO part of the day, perhaps, is fraught with more pleasure than that which is ushered in by the fragrant beverage of tea. The important concerns of life are usually regulated while the sun is still high in the hemisphere; but evening, by general consent and custom, is the period of relaxation for the busy and, amusement for the idle. It is that spot in the map of our time, on which almost all delight to repose their hopes of enjoyment,— A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. Montgomery. Our poets have accordingly been fond of expatiating on its numerous attractions, and have drawn pictures of them which win the mind even more than the realities. They have exhausted their whole art in painting the glories of a summer sun-set, the fascination of twilight, the beauty of the moon, the resplendence of the stars, and the charms of a winter evening's fire-side; and, above all, the various combinations of feeling which these changing scenes and situations rouse in the sensitive being who beholds and enjoys them. To such as are conversant with those classes of the community who are engaged throughout the day in business, it must be well known with what unextinguished eagerness they hail the return of evening. The mind, bent down by the press of occupation, rebounds with an elastic spring when the constraint is removed. Like a stream which has been obstructed, the natural inclination for pleasure and freedom gushes forth with unaccustomed energy. That little interval of leisure, that short respite from toil, which precedes the hours of repose, is relished with a rest almost inconceivable by men who have the whole of their time at their own disposal. Nevertheless, even the latter class are by no means uninterested in the return of the evening. During the day, it is not always that they can meet with others as idle as themselves, and they are sometimes doomed to all the dreariness of solitude amidst the bustle which surrounds them. The approach of night brings with it abundance of partakers in their freedom from care and eagerness for amusement, and they once more feel themselves at home in the pursuits of their fellow-creatures. That it is one of the most delightful parts of the day to the fair sex, will hardly he denied by any of them, or denied with that faint negation which, it is said, they are iu the habit of employing on more interesting occasions, when they are not over-anxious for a literal construction of their words, and which needs only a blush and a smile to invest it with the reverse of its customary import: for evening is the time when the features of man are softened into the looks of kindness, and his voice into the whispers of love; when 66 Beauty's pensive eye Asks from his heart the homage of a sigh."-Campbell. According to Horace, or rather to Dryden (and such customs I suspect are not yet obsolete), it is the time which brings "The appointed hour of promis'd bliss, The pleasing whisper in the dark, The half-unwilling, willing kiss, The laugh that guides thee to the mark, When the kind nymph would coyness feign, And hides but to be found again." It is the time of twilight and of the "loveliest of the stars of heaven,” "When Venus, throned in clouds of rosy hue, The evening, in Flings from her golden urn the vesper dew, And bids fond man her glimmering noon employ, Sacred to love and walks of tender joy."-Campbell. fact, is the empire of woman, the period during which she enjoys her utmost height of power. Whether she smiles on the still scene of domestic life, or, in all the gaiety of dress, irradiates the circles of fashion, or listens to the ardent protestations of love, we may exclaim with the poet, "Here Woman reigns!" Who, then, can wonder that evening is so general a favourite, connected as it is with such interesting feelings, and crowding upon our minds with a thousand pleasing images of stars and moonlight, beauty and bright eyes, love, leisure, amusement, and domestic felicity? For my own part, though I have past the meridian of life, and can no longer partake in the impassioned fervour and hearty gaieties of youth, yet to me evening never comes unwelcome. When not engaged with business or company, nothing pleases me better than a solitary hour after tea. With a good fire, and the simple apparatus of books, pen, ink, and paper, I am never at a loss for amusement. At these times I alternately read, and indulge myself in reflections on any thing which happens to strike me, and my commonplace-book can bear witness to the length, if not to the profundity of my speculations. However other amusements may pall, I seldom lose my relish for this; "Nor shall e'er The graver tasks of manhood, or the advice Of vulgar wisdom, move me to disclaim Those studies which possess'd me in the dawn Of life, and fix'd the colour of my mind For every future year.”—, Akenside. The fruits of these Hours after Tea, I have now some thoughts of giving the public. For a man voluntarily to keep writing without any com |