think she informed me that her father had once been Provost of Perth, but that their family had after his death got reduced in circumstances. She had passed almost the whole of her life, which was not a short one, in the service of the Stoneywood family. As to my grandmother, she was a perfect picture of an old lady of the last century. Her fair comely countenance was encircled in a pure white close cap with a quilled border, over which was a rich black lace cap in the form in which several of Queen Mary's pictures represent her to have worn, a grey satin gown with a laced stomacher, and deeply frilled hanging sleeves that reached the elbow, and over her arms black lace gloves without fingers,

or rather which left the fingers free for the ornament of rings, about her shoulders a small black lace tippet, with high-heeled shoes, and small square silver buckles; there were also buckles in the stomacher. From her waistband also was suspended a portly watch in a shagreen case, and on the opposite side was a wire-sheath for her knitting. Such was old Lady Stoney

wood.

And now we must leave our window and our bright glimpse into the family within, and go our ways. We might have tarried and seen much else, very different, but full of interest; we might have seen by and by the entrance of that noble, homely figure, the greatest, the largest nature in Scottish literature, whose head and face, stoop and smile and burr we all know, and who has filled, and will continue to fill, with innocent sunshine the young (ay, and the old) life of mankind. Sir Walter would have soon come in, with that manly, honest limp; and his earliest and oldest friend would be there with him, he whose words have just painted for us these two old companions in their cordial strife, and whose own evening was as tranquil, as beautiful, and nearly as prolonged, as that of the dear and comely lady of Stoneywood.

As we said before, what material is here for a story! There is the crafty Bailie and the "ower canty" Laird of Ellon; the Sunday tragedy; the young loves and sorrows of James and Margaret; the green purse and its gold pieces shining through, and its "fendy" keeper; the gallant Stoneywood, six foot two, bending in Slains before his Prince; John Gunn with his Cairds, and his dark-eyed, rich-haired wife; the wild havoc of Culloden; the wandering from Speyside to his own Don; the tap at the midnight window, heard by the one unsleeping heart; the brief rapture; the hunted life in Buchan; the cobbler with his 'prentice and their cracks; " Mons. Jacques Jamieson," the honoured merchant and Swedish nobleman; the vanishing away of his

seven sons into the land o' the leal; Penelope, her Ulysses gone, living on with Annie Caw, waiting sweetly till her time of departure and of reunion came. We are better of stirring ourselves about these, the unknown and long time dead; it quickens the capacity of receptive, realizing imagination, which all of us have more or less, and this waxes into something like an immediate and primary power, just as all good poetry makes the reader in a certain sense himself a poet, finding him one in little, and leaving him one in much.

So does any such glimpse into our common life, in its truth and depth and power, quicken us throughout, and make us tell living stories to ourselves; leaves us stronger, sweeter, swifter in mind, readier for all the many things in heaven and on earth we have to do; for we all have wings, though they are often but in bud, or blighted. Sad is it for a man and for a nation when they are all unused, and therefore shrivel and dwine and die, or leave some sadly ludicrous remembrancer of their absence, as "of one that once had wings."

If we grovel and pick up all our daily food at our feet, and never soar, we may grow fat aud huge like the Dodo,* which was once a true dove, beautiful, hot-blooded, and strong of wing, as becomes Aphrodité's own, but got itself developed into a big goose of a pigeon, waddling as it went, and proving itself worthy of its extinction and of its name, the only hint of its ancestry being in its bill.

But even the. best wings can't act in vacuo; they must have something to energize upon, and all imagination worth the name must act upon some objective truth, must achieve for itself, or through others, a real

This is a real bit of natural history, from the Mauritius. The first pigeons there, having plenty on the ground to eat, and no need to fly, and waxing fat like Jeshurun, did not "plume their feathers, and let grow their wings," but grovelled, got monstrous, so that their wings, taking the huff, dwarfed ly describes this embarrassed creature:-"The Dodo, into a fluttering stump. Sir T. Herbert thus quainta bird the Dutch call Walghvoyel, or Dod Eerson her body is round and fat, which occasions the slow pace, so that her corpulence is so great as few of them weigh less than fifty pounds. It is of a melancholy visage, as though sensible of nature's injury, in framing so massie a body to be directed by complimental wings, such, indeed, as are unable to hoise her from the ground, serving only to rank her among birds; her traine three small plumes, short and unproportionable; her legs suiting her body; her pounce sharp; her appetite strong and greedy; stones and iron are digested."-1625. We have in our time seen an occasional Dodo, with its "complimental wings"-a pure and advanced Darwinlan bird-its earthly apetites strong and greedy; "an ill-favoured head;"" great black eyes;" "its gape huge and wide; "slow-paced and stupid;" its visage absurd and melancholy-very.

ized ideal or an idealized reality. Beauty and truth must embrace each other, and goodness bless them both;

'The mistress lets them off these short, dark days

An hour the earlier; and our Liz, she says,
May quite be trusted, and I know 'tis true,
To take care of herself and Jennie too;-

three sisters

That doat upon each other, friends to man,
Living together under the same roof,
And never to be sundered without tears."

THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD.

MRS. SOUTHEY.

May,

Two years the eldest. And they give away The Christmas bounty at the school to-day." The Mother's word was law. Alas for her That hapless day, poor thing! She could not

err

Thought Ambrose, and his fair-haired little Jane,

(Her namesake) to his heart he pressed again, When each had had her turn, she clinging so As if that day she could not let him go. But labor's sons must snatch a hasty bliss In nature's tenderest moods. One last fond kiss,

head gray,

To silver over in a single day

The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime
Scarcely o'erpast; as in the fearful time
Of Gallia's madness, when that discrowned

head

more,

Lovely Auguste, unhappy one, of thee!
I have to tell a humbler history,

A village tale, whose only charm in sooth,
If any, will be sad and simple truth.

"Mother," quoth Ambrose, to his thrifty dame,
(So oft our peasant used his wife to name;
"Father" or "Master" to himself applied,
As life's grave duties matronized the bride.)
"Mother," quoth Ambrose, as he faced the
North

With hard set teeth before he issued forth
To his day's labor from the cottage door,
"I'm thinking that to-night, if not before,
There'll be wild work. Just hear old Chewton

roar.

It's coming up down westward, and look there, One of those sea-gulls! Aye! there goes a pair,

And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on
As threats, the waters will be out anon.
That path by the ford 's a nasty bit of way,
Best let the young ones bide from school to-
day."

"Do, Mother, do!" the quick-eared urchins cried,

Two little lasses, to their Father's side Close-clinging, as they looked from him to spy The answering language of the Mother's eye. There was denial, and she shook her head, "Nay, nay, no harm will come to them," she said.

Then might be seen

gone

What looks demure the sister pair put on.
Not of the Mother as afraid or shy,
Or questioning the love that could deny.
But simple as their simple learning taught,
In quiet plain straightforwardness of thought.
So, to the Mother's charge attentive now,
The docile Lizzie stood with thoughtful brow.
And little Jennie, more demurely still,
Beside her waited the maternal will.
To me there's something touching I confess,
In the grave look of early thoughtfulness,
Seen often in some little childish face
Among the poor. Not that wherein we trace
(Shame to our land, our rulers and our race!)
The unnatural sufferings of the factory child,
Betok'ning, in the depth of those young eyes,
But a staid quietness, reflection mild,
Sense of life's cares, without its miseries.

So standing, hand in hand, a lovelier twain
Gainsborough ne'er painted; no, nor he of
Spain -

Glorious Murillo; and by contrast shone
More beautiful the younger little one,
With large blue eyes, and silken ringlets fair,
By nutbrown Lizzie, with smooth parted hair
Sable and glossy as a raven's wing,
And lustrous eyes as dark.

"Now mind and bring Jennie safe home," the Mother said, "don't stay

To pluck a bough or berry by the way;
And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast
Your little sister's hand till you're quite past.
But you're good children, steady as old folk,
I'd trust you anywhere." Then Lizzie's cloak
(A good gray duffle) lovingly she tied,
And amply little Jennie's back supplied
With her own warmest shawl. "Be sure,"
said she

"To wrap it round and knot it carefully

And with the loaf obtained she lingered still; Said she, "My master, if he'd had his will, Would have kept back our little ones from school

This dreadful morning; and I'm such a fool Since they've been gone I've wished them back, but then

It won't do in such things to humor men,
Our Ambrose specially, if left alone
He'd spoil those wenches. But 'tis coming on
That storm he said was brewing sure enough,
But what of that? To think what idle stuff
Will come into one's head! And here with

you

I stop, as if I'd nothing else to do! And they'll come home drowned rats! I must be gone

To get dry things, and put the kettle on."

His day's work done, three mortal miles and

more

Lay between Ambrose and his cottage door.
A weary way, God wot! for weary wight!
And yet, far off the curling smoke in sight
From his own chimney, and his heart grows
light.

How pleasantly the humble homestead stood

(Silent heart-homage, plant of special grace,)
At the lane's entrance, slackening oft his pace,
Would Ambrose send a loving look before.
The caged blackbird at the cottage door
The very blackbird - strained its little throat
In welcome, with a more rejoicing note.
And honest Tinker, dog of doubtful breed,
All bristle, back and tail, but good at need,
Pleasant his welcome to the accustomed ear.
But of all welcomes pleasantest, most dear,
The ringing voices, like sweet, silver bells,
Of his own little ones. How fondly swells
The Father's heart, as, dancing up the lane,
Each clasps a hand in her small hand again,
And each must tell her tale, and say her say,
Impeding as she leads with sweet delay,
(Childhood's blest thoughtlessness) his onward
way.

And when the winter day closed in so fast,
Scarce for his toil would weary daylight last,
When in all weathers, driving sleet, rain, snow,
Home by that bare, bleak moor-track he must

go

Darkling and lonely. Oh the blessed sight
His polar star that little twinkling light
From one small window, thro' the leafless trees
Glimmering so fitfully no eyes but his
Had spied it so far off. And sure was he,
Entering the lane, a steadfast beam to see
Ruddy and broad as peat-fed hearth could pour,
Streaming to meet him from the open door.
Then tho' the blackbird's welcome was un-
heard,

Silenced by winter, note of summer bird -
Still was he hailed, though by no fowl alive,
But by the cuckoo-clock just striking five.
And Tinker's eye and Tinker's ear were keen;
Oft started he, and then a form was seen
Dark'ning the doorway; and a smaller sprite,
And then another, peered into the night,
Ready to follow free on Tinker's track,
But for the Mother's hand which held them
back.

Master, we've done our business for the day." The kettle sings, the cat in chorus purrs The busy housewife with her tea-things stirs, The doors made fast, the old stuff curtains drawn,

How the hail clatters! Let it clatter on.

How the wind raves and rattles! What cares he?

wood!

How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze
In summer-time, from his two cherry-trees,
Sheeted in blossom! And in hot July,
From the brown moor track, shadowless and
dry

How grateful the cool covert to regain
Of his own avenue that shady lane,
With the white cottage in a slanting glow
Of sunset glory, gleaming bright below;
And jasmine porch, his rustic portico.
With what a thankful gladness in his face,

tree,

With a wee lassie prattling on each knee.

Such was the home-home sacred and apart,
Warmed in expectancy the poor man's heart,
Summer and winter, as his task he plied,
To him and his the literal doom applied
Pronounced on Adam. But the bread was
sweet,

So earned, for such dear mouths. The weary feet

Passing a neighbor's cottage on his way, (Mark Fenton's) him he took with small delay To bear him company, for who could say What need might be? They struck into the track

The children should have taken, coming back From school that day; and many a call and shout

Into the pitchy darkness they sent out:
And, by the lantern's light, passed all about
In every thicket, wayside hill and nook,
Till suddenly, as nearing now the brook,
Something rushed past them. That was Tin-
ker's bark.

Unheeded he had followed in the dark,
Close at his master's heels, but swift as light
Darted before them now. "Be sure he's right-
Low-down he's making for the water- hark!
I know that whine, the old dog's found them—
hark!"

So breathlessly the Father hurried on
Towards the crazy foot-bridge: it was gone;
And all his dull contracte i light could show
Was the black void and dark swoll'n stream
below.

"Yet there's life somewhere, more than Tinker's whine,

Be sure," said Mark, "so let the lantern shine Down yonder - there's the dog-and hark!"

But I held on, and I'm so weary now!
And it's so dark and cold! Oh dear! Oh dear!
And she won't move. If daddy were but
.here!"

Poor lamb, she wandered in her mind, 'twas clear,

But soon the piteous murmur died away,
And quiet in her Father's arms she lay;
They their dead burden had resigned to take
The living, so near lost. For her dear sake,
And one at home, he armed himself to bear
His misery like a man. With tenderest care
Doffing his coat her shivering form to fold,
His neighbor bearing that which felt no cold,
He clasped her close; and so with little said,
Homeward they bore the living and the dead.

From Ambrose Grey's poor cottage all that night

Shone fitfully a little wavering light,
Above, below, for all were watchers there
Save one sound sleeper; her, parental care,
Parental watchfulness, availed not now:
But in the young survivor's throbbing brow
And wandering eyes, delirious fever burned;
And all night long from side to side she turned,
Piteously plaining like a wounded dove,
With now and then a murmur, "She won't

A MODEL MERCHANT.-Quoth the American Minister, the other evening, at the Mansion House:

"MR. GEORGE PEABODY is a singular man. He is a man of remarkable character, being, I might almost says, a species by himself."

Singular man! Yes, verily, there is but one GEORGE PEABODY, and thousands by him profit. We should like to see this singular made plural, we confess. The Peabody species is one well worthy of development; and come, there is no harm in hinting how we might extend it. Imitation is allowed to be the truest form of flattery. Perhaps a few of

our

rich merchants will. imitate GEORGE PEABODY? Why should they not take a leaf out of his book, and one out of their own cheque-books? thousand Londoners from wretchedness and dirt. By his generous gift to London he rescues nigh a Why should not half a score or so of our great merchant princes resolve to do the like? Thanks to railways, and embankments, and valley eleva tions, a number of poor Londoners, are turned daily out of doors, and know not where to find clean lodging. Don't be backward, kind rich gentlemen, in housing the poor houseless. Who will first step forward and "say ditto " to GEORGE PEABODY?

-Punch.