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and expressed a wish to be put to death rather in the open air than within the house. "For your bread which I have eaten," answered Barber, "I will grant the request." MacDonald was dragged to the door accordingly; but he was an active man, and when the soldiers were presenting their firelocks to shoot him, he cast his plaid over their faces, and, taking advantage of the confusion, escaped up the glen.

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The alarm being now general, many other persons, male and female, attempted their escape in the same manner as the two sons of MacIan and the person last mentioned. Flying from their burning huts, and from their murderous visitors, the half-naked fugitives committed themselves to a winter morning of darkness, snow, and storm, amidst a wilderness the most savage in the West Highlands, having a bloody death behind them, and before them tempest, famine, and desolation. Bewildered in the snow-wreaths, several sunk to rise no more. But the severities of the storm were tender mercies compared to the cruelty of their persecutors.

The great fall of snow, which proved fatal to several of the fugitives, was the means of saving the remnant that escaped. Major Duncanson, agreeably to the plan expressed in his orders to Glenlyon, had not failed to put himself in motion with four hundred men, on the evening preceding the slaughter; and had he reached the eastern passes out of Glencoe by four in the morning, as he calculated, he must have intercepted and destroyed all those who took that only way of escape from Glenlyon and his followers. But as this reinforcement arrived so late as eleven in the forenoon, they found no MacDonald alive in Glencoe, save an old man of eighty, whom they slew; and after burning such houses as were yet unconsumed, they collected the property of the tribe, consisting of twelve hundred head of cattle and horses, besides goats and sheep, and drove them off to the garrison.

'Thus ended this horrible deed of massacre. The number of persons murdered was thirty-eight; those who escaped might amount to a hundred and fifty

males, who, with the women and children of the tribe, had to fly more than twelve miles through rocks and wildernesses, ere they could reach any place of safety or shelter.'

THE NAME.

And as we read the names unknown
Of young and old to judgment gone,
To meditate, in Christian love,

Upon the dead and dying!

Professor Wilson.

awhile

?

HITHER with
me, and gaze
On the solemn crowd, in yon dim aisle,
Where a rosy child in the midst appears,
Shrinking back with unconscious tears;
At that holy font, in the face of heaven,
The cross is signed, and the name is given !
Hark! where the village school pours forth
A motley tide, with their boist'rous mirth;
Saving one, they are scattered and gone,
He ponders still o'er his book alone;
What may so deeply his thoughts engage
His own name writ on the title page.
Behold! where the tangled branches shade
The vine-wreathed lattice of yonder maid,
She listens to catch the whispered breath
Of a manly youth, concealed beneath;
One word has kindled a mighty flame,
And that magic sound--is her lover's name !
Again-'tis the pageant's final scene,
Where weeping friends o'er the death-bed lean,
A scroll in the sick man's hand is placed,
But his name can now be scarcely traced;
Why on that parchment thus intent?
'Tis that dying man's last testament!

Now follow me; yet softly tread,
For our feet are wand'ring over the dead;
Put back the weeds from this sunken stone:
Its sculptured letters are nearly gone!
Mark this; thy course will be the same,
And a mould'ring stone record thy name.

E. L. J.

AN ORIGINAL ANECDOTE OF DEAN SWIFT.

MR. RICHARDSON, bookseller, of Derby, possesses some very curious letters written early in the reign of George II. by a Mr. Wainwright, who was subsequently an Irish judge. One of these, addressed to a lady, we have great pleasure in laying before our readers ::-

Madam,-Nothing ever went so hard with the Dean of St. Patrick's as an affair which lately happened. I will relate it as I hear from his friends. He tells it, and I had it from the other actor's own mouth. Serjeant Bettsworth is a lawyer of some business, a member of parliament, a man of fire and valour, a great talker, no ill speaker in the house, has a torrent of language and imagination, is always in buskins or upon a prancing horse, has a great deal of honour and a small estate. A satirical poem came out (I chuse to begin with the serjeant's part first), and he went to the dean's house. Being told there he was gone to one Worral's in the neighbourhood, he followed him thither, was shown into a parlour where the dean was, alone.

Sir, says the serjeant (always keeping between the dean and the door), I am come to assert that superiority which you have given me over you as a gentleman and a Christian.

D. Sir, I understand you facinus quos inquinate aquat, you and I are much of a sort.

B. No, sir, I thank God we are not. I am your superior, for he that unprovoked puts it in another's power to punish or forgive, raises the injured person above him. Did you write the verses in this paper? D. I, sir, I never wrote your name or a letter of your name, as I know, in my life. Why do you say they are mine?

A hundred people have

B. For these plain reasons. them in their hands, and every one of them says they are yours.

D. I deny them.

B. So you did that atheistical book, the Tale of a

Tub; that scandalous poem, Cadenus and Vanessa, though the world was to believe your sweet self had made a conquest, and triumphed over a poor lady in her grave, she in love with a satyr! (leading him to the glass) look at the figure that could excite the passion. So you did deny that inhospitable poem-(I have forgot the name)-and that filthy excrement of your brain, the Toilette; and in a numberless other instances, like one of your own Yahoos, you get into a tree, lie and perched upon a bough, befoul all that come near you.

D. Sir, I vow to God I don't know you. I never saw you.

B. You lie. But did you say true, your case is the worse, and I take it upon that; and as a man you neither ever saw or knew, come for reparation, in as much as you have taken from me, as far as in you lies, reputation, dearer than life, from myself, and bread from my family.

D. A very pretty period this! Is this a gentleman, an orator? (Worral was then come into the room). You durst not have used me thus, sir, were not my gown your protection.

B. You lie again. O that you were as you deserve, uncased, what a heap of bones should I have to pay

for!

D. You will wear out Christian patience.

B. Out upon it. You a Christian, you have put yourself out of that community, out of your own order, out of the very society of the human race. Yours is the hand from which the javelin is delivered, that flies in the dark. You the lurking villain that stands in the thievish corner, to stab, rob, and destroy. You are he that scatters poison, arrows, and death, and says am I not in sport? But your Christian patience must be further tried. You're chaf'd, you begin to drip, what's an ounce of your sweat worth now? You say you are not the author of these verses?

D. I give you my word.

B. Neither I nor you value it either as verbum sa

cerdotis, or of an honest man. I must have more, it must be in writing under your hand.

D. When I wrote some pamphlets in the queen's time, I asked two of the most eminent lawyers, I think Lord Somers was one, what I should do. They advised me never to own any thing, and I have followed that rule. Many paltry pieces are imputed to me every day, which I know nothing of, and I disown this.

B. This wont do. I must have more, or by the eternal God-(feeling in his pocket for a large sharp knife which he had brought with him)

D. If I write you a letter to that purpose, will that do?

B. Yes, you promise?

D. I do.

For as I hope

B. Then you have saved your ears. to see the face of God at the resurrection, I would have cut them both off, if you had owned this scurrility. As bad a lawyer as you take me to be, I have thus much knowledge, that the Coventry Act does not take place in this kingdom; and as to any damages you might have recovered, I should have ventured them. But now the letter being always supposed the basis of our alliance, I give you full leave to write against me in print. Set your name freely, do it once a week, advertise against me, and upon my honour, never yet forfeited, I will take no advantage of you at law, or by privilege in parliament, but will answer you week by week, day by day, you upon my character, I upon yours; take all the advantages of wit and spleen, I'll encounter you, with the materials your life and conversation afford.

So after an hour's imprisonment, B. half opened the door, the D. shot through, and made the best of his way to the deanery.

This seems to me one of the most difficult circumstances of the dean's life. He tells the story short, leaving out all or most of the serjeant's part-he can't well bear any attack. He was used, upon such occasions, where he was ruffled, to cry bears, beurs, and

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