Puslapio vaizdai

receding roar, then a fresh explosion of lay at her feet, and saw his features softwrath, which shook the land's founda- ened, as it were, through the fog. Her tions. It seemed to her, as she sat lis- thoughts, her feelings, her very senses, tening, as if it were the earth itself were in a strange whirl, and all sorts of breathing-inhaling, and exhaling,—as dim yearnings peeped forth, only to be

hustled out of sight and bashfully hidden. She felt his eyes resting upon her tenderly, and with a sweet seriousness which made her glow and shiver in the same moment.

There must have been something sympathetic in the shiver, for he presently got up, and shivered too.

“It is getting dark,” he said ;“the moon will soon drop out of sight."

She made no answer, and he sauntered uneasily about her for a few minutes, gazing intently at her, as if he were battling with some great resolution. She looked lovely, as she sat there in the moon-lit fog, her eyes kindled with emotion, and her pensive, demure little face animated by a vague expectancy.

“Miss Charity," he began, his voice starting out of the dusk with sudden vehemence; “I have a world of things to say to you. I have

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They were silent for a long while, listening to the heavy cannonading of the surf." Before he had

time to finish, a treif she felt its mighty breast heaving. In mendous wave broke over the reef, the presence of this gigantic monster, spreading with scores of shallow arms which spoke with the voice of eternity over the sand. In an instant she was on in her ear, whose very gentlest whisper her feet and rushed up the beach. But shook her innermost being, she felt her- he caught her in his arms, and held her self so infinitely small. She looked half in a tight embrace, while the water guranxiously at the face of the youth who gled about her ankles.

" You wished to say something to sheen upon them. And it was owing to me,” she whispered after a long silence. this circumstance that a belated fisher

He was about to answer, but found man who was tacking close to shore himself suddenly enveloped in an intense caught sight of them in the midst of the crimson illumination. He looked at fleecy sea of indistinguishable fog. Charity, and she too shone as if lighted “Man ahoy !” he called; and was not up by Bengal fire. It took him fully & a little surprised when the answer came minute to recover from his consternation, in a woman's voice. and to trace the singular phenomenon He made out the mystery, however, to its origin. It was the revolving light by recollecting the passage in the marof the government light-house, which riage service which bids the two to be had accidentally flashed its blood-red one.


By C. P. Cranch.



He sold his poems and was free from care.
The critics praised them, and he trod on air.
The people crowned him 'mid their poet-kings.
He touched the earth no more, but spread his wings.

But ah, the test of worth he could not shun.
His wings were wax, and melted in the sun.
The sires gazed upward on a flight of fame.
Their sons looked down on a forgotten name.



Doubtless they missed him at the rustic board

In the ude herdsmen's feast of home-brewed ale.
His thoughts, his dreams, his nobler longings soared

Beyond the vulgar jest and trivial tale.
Into his larger sky's ethereal zone
The wings that lifted him were not his own.

Jove's eagle snatched him from the common throng,

And bore him to the blue Olympian heights.
What cared he for his comrades' homely song

In the new opening heaven of sounds and sights-
Where in a sphere of harmonies divine
He served the gods and poured celestial wine!

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ANY writers have to me, looking back, it must be always vigorously describ- autumn and generally Sunday, there ed the pains of the came suddenly upon the face of all I first day or the first saw—the long empty road, the lines of night at school; to the tall houses, the church upon the a boy of any enter- hill, the woody hill-side garden-a look prise, I believe, of such a piercing sadness that my heart they are more often died ; and seating myself on a door-step,

agreeably exciting. I shed tears of miserable sympathy. A Misery—or at least misery unrelieved benevolent cat cumbered me the while is confined to another period, to the days with consolations—we two were alone in of suspense and the "dreadful looking- all that was visible of the London Road : for" of departure ; when the old life is two poor waifs who had each tasted sorrunning to an end, and the new life, with row—and she fawned upon the weeper, its new interests, not yet begun; and to and gambolled for his entertainment, the pain of an imminent parting, there watching the effect, it seemed, with is added the unrest of a state of consci- motherly eyes. Long ago has that ous prëexistence. The area railings, the small heart been quieted, that small beloved shop-window, the smell of semi- body (then rigid and cold) buried in suburban tanpits, the song of the church the end of a town garden, perhaps with bells

upon a Sunday, the thin, high some attendant children. She will never voices of compatriot children in a play- console another trembler on the brink ing field—what a sudden, what an over- of life: poor little mouse, bringing powering pathos breathes to him from strength to the young elephant: poor each familiar circumstance! The as- little thing of a year or two ministering saults of sorrow come not from within, to the creature of near upon a century. as it seems to him, but from without. For the sake of the cat, God bless her! I was proud and glad to go to school ; I confessed at home the story of my own had I been let alone, I could have borne weakness ; and so it comes about that I

any hero; but there was around owed a certain journey, and the reader me, in all my native town, a conspiracy owes the present paper, to a cat in the of lamentation : "Poor little boy, he London Road. It was judged, if I had is going away—unkind little boy, he is thus brimmed over on the public highgoing to leave us ;" so the unspoken way, some change of scene was in the burthen followed me as I went, with medical sense) indicated ; my father at yearning and reproach. And at length, the time was visiting the harbor lights one melancholy afternoon in the early of Scotland ; and it was decided he autumn, and at a place where it seems should take me along with him around


up like

a portion of the shores of Fife: my first ular Dutch skipper who would sit all professional tour, my first journey in day in slippers on the break of the the complete character of man, without poop, smoking a long German pipe ; the help of petticoats.

Wemyss (pronounce Weems) with its The Kingdom of Fife (that royal prov- bat-haunted caves, where the Chevalier ince) may be observed by the curious Johnstone, on his flight from Culloden, on the map, occupying a tongue of land passed a night of superstitious terrors ; between the firths of Forth and Tay. Leven, a bald, quite modern place, saIt may be continually seen from many cred to summer visitors, whence there parts of Edinburgh (among the rest, has gone but yesterday the tall figure from the windows of my father's house) and the white locks of the last Englishdying away into the distance and the man in Delhi, my uncle Dr. Balfour, easterly haar with one smoky sea-side who was still walking his hospital town beyond another, or in winter rounds, while the troopers from Meerut printing on the gray heaven some glit- clattered and cried “Deen Deen" along tering hill tops. It has no beauty to the streets of the imperial city, and Wilrecommend it, being a low, sea-salted, loughby mustered his handfu of heroes wind-vexed promontory; trees very at the magazine, and the nameless brave rare, except (as common on the east one in the telegraph office was perhaps coast) along the dens of rivers ; the already fingering his last despatch ; and fields well cultivated, I understand, but just a little beyond Leven, Largo Law not lovely to the eye. It is of the coast and the smoke of Largo town mounting I speak : the interior may be the garden about its feet, the town of Alexander of Eden. History broods over that part Selkirk, better known under the name of the world like the easterly haar. of Robinson Crusoe. So on, the list Even on the map, its long row of Gaelic might be pursued (only for private reaplace-names bear testimony to an old sons, which the reader will shortly have and settled race. Of these little towns, an opportunity to guess) by St. Moposted along the shore as close as nance, and Pittenweem, and the two sedges, each with its bit of harbor, its Anstruthers, and Cellardyke, and Crail old weather-beaten church or public where Primate Sharpe was once a humbuilding, its flavor of decayed pros- ble and innocent country minister: on perity and decaying fish, not one but to the heel of the land, to Fifeness, has its legend, quaint or tragic : Dun overlooked by a sea-wood of matted fermline, in whose royal towers the king elders and the quaint old mansion of may be still observed in the ballad) Balcomie, itself overlooking but the drinking the blood-red wine ; somno breach or the quiescence of the deeplent Inverkeithing, once the quarantine the Carr Rock beacon rising close in of Leith ; Aberdour, hard by the monas- front, and as night draws in, the star tic islet of Inchcolm, hard by Doni- of the Inchcape reef springing up on bristle where the “bonny face was the one hand, and the star of the May spoiled;" Burntisland where, when Paul Island on the other, and further off yet Jones was off the coast, the Reverend a third and a greater on the craggy Mr. Shirra had a table carried between foreland of St. Abb's. And but a little tide-marks, and publicly prayed against way round the corner of the land, imthe rover at the pitch of his voice and minent itself above the sea, stands the his broad lowland dialect; Kinghorn, gem of the province and the light of where Alexander “brak's neckbane" mediæval Scotland, St. Andrew's, where and left Scotland to the English wars; the great Cardinal Beaton held garrison Kirkaldy, where the witches once pre- against the world, and the second of vailed extremely and sunk tall ships and the name and title perished (as you may honest mariners in the North Sea ; Dy- read in Knox's jeering narrative) under sart, famous—well famous at least to the knives of true-blue Protestants, and me for the Dutch ships that lay in its to this day (after so many centuries) the harbor, painted like toys and with pots current voice of the professor is not of flowers and cages of song-birds in hushed. the cabin windows, and for one partic Here it was that my first tour of in

As soon

But upon

spection began, early on a bleak easterly proper inspector came, he would be morning. There was a crashing run of readier with his panes. The human sea upon the shore, I recollect, and my race is perhaps credited with more father and the man of the harbor light duplicity than it deserves. The visitation must sometimes raise their voices to be of a light-house at least is a business of audible. Perhaps it is from this cir- the most transparent nature. cumstance, that I always imagine St. An- as the boat grates on the shore, and the drew's to be an ineffectual seat of learn- keepers step forward in their uniformed ing, and the sound of the east wind and coats, the very slouch of the fellows' the bursting surf to linger in its drowsy shoulders tells their story and the enclass-rooms and confound the utterance gineer may begin at once to assume his of the professor, until teacher and taught angry countenance." Certainly the are alike drowned in oblivion, and only brass of the handrail will be clouded ; the sea-gull beats on the windows and and if the brass be not immaculate, the draught of the sea-air rustles in the certainly all will be to match—the reflectpages of the open lecture.

ors scratched, the spare lamp unready, all this, and the romance of St. Andrew's the storm-panes in the storehouse. If in general, the reader must consult the a light is not rather more than middling works of Mr. Andrew Lang ; who has good, it will be radically bad. Mediwritten of it but the other day in his ocrity (except in literature) appears to dainty prose and with his incommunica- be unattainable by man. But of course ble humor, and long ago in one of his best the unfortunate of St. Andrew's was only poems, with grace, and local truth and an amateur, he was not in the Service, he a note of unaffected pathos. Mr. Lang had no uniform coat, he was (I believe) knows all about the romance, I say, and a plumber by his trade and stood (in the educational advantages, but I doubt thē mediæval phrase) quite out of the if he had turned his attention to the danger of my father; but he had a painharbor lights; and it may be news even ful interview for all that, and perspired to him, that in the year 1863, their case extremely. was pitiable. Hanging about with the From St. Andrew's, we drove over Maeast wind humming

in my teeth, and my gus Muir. My father had announced we hands (I make no doubt) in my pocket, were to post," and the phrase called up I looked for the first time upon that in my hopeful mind visions of top-boots tragi-comedy of the visiting engineer and the pictures in Rowlandson's Dance which I have seen so often reënacted on of Death ; but it was only a jingling cab a more important stage. Eighty years that came to the inn door, such as I had ago, I find my grandfather writing : “It driven in a thousand times at the low is the most painful thing that can occur price of one shilling on the streets of to me to have a correspondence of this Edinburgh. Beyond this disappointkind with any of the keepers, and when ment, I remember nothing of that drive. I come to the Light House, instead of It is a road I have often travelled, and having the satisfaction to meet them of not one of these journeys do I rememwith approbation and welcome their ber any single trait. The fact has not Family, it is distressing when one is been supposed to encroach on the truth obliged to put on a most angry counte- of the imagination. I still see Magus nance and demeanor.” This painful ob- Muir two hundred years ago ; a desert ligation has been hereditary in my race. place, quite uninclosed ; in the midst, I have myself, on a perfectly amateur the Primate's carriage fleeing at the galand unauthorized inspection of Turn- lop; the assassins loose reined in purberry Point, bent my brows upon the suit, Burley Balfour, pistol in hand, keeper on the question of storm-panes; among the first. No scene of history and felt a keen pang of self-reproach, has ever written itself so deeply on my when we went down stairs again and I mind; not because Balfour, that quesfound he was making a coffin for his tionable zealot, was an ancestral cousin infant child ; and then regained my of my own; not because of the pleadings equanimity with the thought that I had of the victim and his daughter; not done the man a service, and when the even because of the live bum-bee that

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