both were too proud to make any concession. Winter brought the Christmas holidays; and when the mutual annual feast did not take place, the young folks felt it the privation of a pleasure of which their memories could not trace the commencement. At Benty-brae, the farmer had invited the schoolmaster and his wife, Mr Clarke the tutor, and the family of a farmer lately come to that quarter. The entertainment was more than usually splendid, as if to banish unpleasant recollections;

"But ill the banquet was supplied, By form, by gravity, and pride :" The tutor endeavoured, indeed, to be gallant to Mary, but she was scarcely civil in return; for both to her and her brother there was a void which nothing could supply. Ellen was not there, and cards proved a wretched substitute for the soul-inspiring tones of William's violin. Even the farmer himself fell into fits of abstraction and melancholy musing, when he thought of a friendship of twenty years standing thus annihilated.

Time passed on, and with none of the party had the rancour of political feeling subsided, nor the fervour of love abated. The only change that had taken place was, that George Glen was now more outrageously loyal than his father: volunteer corps were now raising, and George was enrolled as an Ensign: their uniform was a blue coat, with a scarlet collar, of which George was so proud, that it became his holiday-dress on all occasions: he also imagined himself, not only the conservator of the public peace, but also the inquisitor of public opinion. The laird was Commander of the corps, and had applied to William Smith to enter, which he civilly declined; but, on being urged, used some expressions which made him be set down as a marked man. They assembled for drill, twice a-week, on the lawn in front of the laird's mansion. The weather was warm; many of them came from a distance; the laird was loyal, and generous hearted; for all which reasons, he often regaled them with porter, or strong-ale, from his cellar.

George Glen, and some others, had

to pass through a village containing a tippling-house, where these newfledged heroes sometimes "relaxed the brow of care" on their way home; here also William Smith, and a few soi-disant patriots, met occasionally, to talk over their favourite topics.

One warm evening, these last had met, and, being thirsty, had drunk freely of Whitbread's brown stout. George Glen and his companions came in some time after. As is very common in small ale-houses, they were introduced into the same room occupied by William Smith and his associates. The two parties, even at meeting, eyed each other with lowering and suspicious glances; George was at the head of the party, and, while he endeavoured to preserve the dignity of a gentleman, the smile of contempt curled up his lip. Some time elapsed before any conversation took place between the parties; but at length some jibes and jeers were played off, which produced retaliation in kind. The Ensign thought himself a wit, and William Smith believed he could say very severe things; neither respected the other; but Mary and Ellen, although not present, associated in their minds like guardian angels, and prevented_any incivility from passing between them; but the wit, if not the ill-nature of both, was indulged freely at the expence of others present; this continued in growing asperity, till, at last, the latent dislike in their minds, roused into wrath, by foolish and irritating language, and further stimulated by potent liquor, burst forth in threats and open defiance. Both parties were liberal in abusive and contemptuous epithets; and one foul-mouthed fellow, in William's party, applied an expression to the Ensign which instantly deprived him of the little prudence he had left ;his sword was drawn, and he was rushing forward to take dreadful vengeance, when William, to prevent bloodshed, sprung between them ;-the weapon, hitherto unstained with blood, pierced his side, his blood spouted on the bosom of his friend, and he fell, apparently lifeless, at his feet. Petrified with horror at his own act, George now stooped down over him, when the wounded man whispered, in a faint

voice, “I am killed-fly-lose not a moment!" In the hurry and confusion this was not difficult, and, in a few moments, George was at a considerable distance; it was late, and afraid to go home, he ran to his Colonel, rushed into his presence half-frantic, and stained with blood. Few words explained the intrusion; he was supplied with a change of dress, money, and a letter to the commanding-officer of a regiment just about to depart for the continent. Before the sun arose, he was far distant, and, in less than a week, was enrolled as Ensign in a regiment of the line, and embarked for the Mediterranean.

A surgeon was procured for the wounded man as early as possible; the vitals were untouched, and, although the wound was dangerous, there was a rational hope of his recovery. It would not be easy to describe the distress and complicated feelings of the families of Benty-brae and Rashy-burn, on receipt of this fatal intelligence. William lay at the ale-house, attended by his sister and Mary Gle, who, in defiance of her father's prohibition, continued to watch over his fate, who, she now found, was dearer to her than all the world beside. Youth, a good constitution, skilful surgeon, and, last, although not least, the tender and endearing attentions of Mary, accelerated his convalescence, and be fore harvest he was completely recovered. This accident had no tendency to reconcile the fathers, who mutally blamed each other, as one felt his only son was exiled, and the other, that the life of his child had been placed in the most imminent danger. Ellen had witnessed, with tearful eye and anguished heart, the mutual affection of her brother and Mary, continuing to heave many a secret sigh over the fate of her banished lover, who, although he had endangered the life of her brother, was still dear to her heart. After William's recovery she sunk into a melancholy stupor, and her parents began to fear that both her health and intellects were impaired.

It was now the month of November, when, one morning, a little girl arrived at Rashy-burn, with a pencilled note for William, of the following tenor:

"I am a state prisoner-all my papers are seized, among which are several of your letters-all will be sent to Edinburgh-lose no time, but fly."

William had corresponded with a man as violent and less cautious than himself, who was now apprehended, but had contrived to send this notice to his friend. William saw his danger,-flight was his only resource,-but to fly without seeing Mary Glen was impossible. He contrived to convey a message to her, appointing an interview in the twilight. They met,-he imparted the fatal tidings,-they renewed their pledges of constant love,-mingled tears, and William was about to take a parting embrace, when she said she would see him again at the hour of his departure, which was midnight. Their rendezvous was appointed under the hawthorn in the glen, where they had spent happier hours. Afraid of making her wait, William had taken leave of all his friends, and was there before the time, leaning his back against the tree, with a staff in his hand, and a bundle containing some necessaries lying on a greyrock at his feet; the hollow wind came up the glen in sudden gusts, whistling in the naked branches over his head, and whirling the withered leaves in fitful eddies, with a rustling noise, among the brambles and other wild shrubs around; dark clouds scudded over the sky, where, at intervals, the moon, pale and watery, shewed her waning crescent, reflected from the pool in the rivulet before him; he heard the bark of a house-dog-it was that of Benty-brae, and, in spite of himself, he heaved a sigh, and a tear stood trembling in his eye. Years of departed happiness crowded on his mind,-he attempted to look into the future, but all was impenetrable darkness, as the gloom which surrounded him. Although he had stood but a few minutes, they appeared to him a period of interminable length, when Mary approached, covered with a mantle, and a large bundle under her arm. He looked surprised, and said, "What means this, Mary?" "Did you imagine that I would suffer you to depart alone?-not such is my love,-I go with you." Mary, although it is to me agony

"Dear

worse than death to part, yet this cannot be, you must not tear your self from friends and home, to follow the fortunes of an outlaw, whom fate may doom to an ignominious death." Mary replied in the style, and nearly in the words of Ruth to Naomi, and concluded by saying, "I know your heart, and have already sworn, what I again call Heaven to witness, that nought but violence or death shall part you and me. Make me your wife-give me a legal claim to your protection, and then, come weel, come woe, we will share it to gether." William folded her in his arms, wept on her bosom, and again entreated her to leave him; but her love was invincible, and, like Adam and Eve, when expelled from Eden, "hand in hand they took their solitary way."

Wandering all night, they found means next day to get themselves legally and indissolubly united, and again pursued their journey. Their object was to seek some sequestered part of the country, where William, undiscovered, could find employment as a farm-servant, till perhaps the present political storm might blow over. After repeated unsuccessful applications, he at last engaged himself with a farmer in the vicinity of a small town, where he took lodgings for himself and Mary. His skill and activity gave satisfaction to his employer; he enjoyed good health, and, blessed in the tender affection of his Mary, was beginning to forget the past.

William's letters, which had been seized among his friend's papers, were considered of treasonable tendency; a warrant had been issued to apprehend him, and a reward was offered for the discovery of his retreat. The farmer of Benty-brae, now bereaved of a son and daughter, still indulged his resentment against James Smith as the primary cause of all that had happened; while James, equally inflamed with the spirit of party, deplored his son, a proscribed outlaw, and gazed on his only daughter in a state of bodily and mental imbecility; he blamed the rigour of Government for all this, and expressed his resentment openly, and in bitterness of heart. His lease was now nearly expired, and his landlord had intimated to him, that it would not be

renewed on any terms, as he was determined to have no tenant of such principles. Summer had again come round, and Ellen was now so far unsettled in her mind, that she talked of going in quest of her dear George, whom his cruel father had sent away, to prevent their union. She had been watched for some time, but found an opportunity of eloping, and every search, for more than two weeks, had proved abortive.

Every day was adding to the felicity of William and Mary. He hoped soon to be a happy father; the sky of love was unclouded, and both their hearts as gay as the season that smiled around them. It is thus that a couple of linnets twitter on the flowery spray, each responding the note of its fellow, neither observing the hawk that hovers above their heads, marking them for its prey. William had been recognised by a fellow, who, for the sake of the reward, lodged information against him, and he was seized at the side of his Mary, handcuffed, and carried to prison. His faithful partner had sworn that death alone should part them, and now prepared to take up her abode with him in his dreary mansion, in spite of every entreaty of her husband not to leave her peaceful abode. He soon found the value of her company; for she read, and even sung to him, and smiling, said they were like two birds in a cage, each adding to the happiness of the other. Immediately on their entrance here, she had written to her sister Eliza an account of what had taken place, and now every day expected a reply.

The windows of their cell looked to the street, and one day there arose a hurra of vulgar merriment; all again was quiet, when they distinctly heard the following stanza, sung in a softly plaintive voice, but in an air wildly irregular:

"O waly, waly, down the bank,
O waly, waly, down the brae;
An' waly, waly, by yon burnside,
Where I and my love were wont to gae."

There was something in the tones of the singer that thrilled to Mary's heart; she rushed to the window; the crowd again set up a loud hurra; Mary looked for a moment, and uttering a wild scream, would have

fallen on the floor, had she not been supported in her husband's arins. Unable to articulate, she pointed to the window in breathless alarm. William looked to the street, and right opposite, saw a crowd of idle and blackguard boys around a young woman most fantastically attired, and evidently a maniac; she was laughing and crying alternately, and that hapless girl was Ellen! She was now supplicating the crowd to let her pass, for she was in haste to meet her bridegroom; and when they, with unfeeling wantonness, closed around her, she threatened them with his vengeance, for she said he was a hero, and wore a sword. It would be impossible to describe the distress of the prisoners; their jailor was absent, and Mary fainted, when she saw the companion of her youth -the sister of her William, passing away, followed by her idle and wicked tormentors. Although there had been any person on the street to whom William could have applied, his attention was now wholly engrossed with the recovery of his Mary, and by the time that she was restored to life, his sister was not in view; but the shouts that echoed from a distance gave them the pain ful certainty that she was still surrounded by her persecutors.

When Eliza Glen received advice of her sister and brother's distress, she set off immediately to visit them, accompanied by William's father. They were entering the town just as Ellen was leaving it, still surrounded by a crowd of mischievous boys; although insane, she knew them perfectly, and it was not difficult to persuade her to return with them. After this sorrowful father had conducted his daughter to an inn, Eliza left them, and proceeded to the prison, where she arrived not long after the scene we have just related. Having passed some time in that abode of misery, she and Mary departed to meet James and Ellen, on whom the sight of Mary produced a hysterical paroxysm, during which, her sufferings, both bodily and mental, were dreadful. She was with difficulty conveyed to William's house, alas! no longer the abode of love and happiness. The excitement which Mary's frame had experienced, and the agi

tation of her mind, now induced premature parturition; after being long ill, she was delivered of a stillborn child, and died in a few hours after. Although William's father and his master offered joint_securi ties for him, he could not be permitted to see her, nor to pay the last tribute of affection to her remains; and he was for some time in a state little short of distraction. Ellen had fallen into a low fever, and lay sick, with her mind in torpid insensibility; she was attended by Eliza, while the hapless father wandered between the cell of his son and the couch of his daughter.

It was now reported that William was to be removed to Edinburgh, preparatory to his trial. He had been often visited by Eliza, since the untimely death of her sister, and she now disclosed to him the dying wish of his Mary, which she had sworn to fulfil; and this was, that she should change clothes with him, and thereby give him an opportunity of escaping from prison. It was several days before the joint entreaties of his father and this kind-hearted girl had any effect; his reply being, that the world had now lost every charm for him, he was tired of life, and indifferent about his fate. At last they prevailed with him to make the attempt. He had kept his bed several days after Mary's death, and now again did so for a day or two, during which he was visited by Eliza. One evening she called on him, dressed him in her clothes, and placed herself in his bed; the jailor was outwitted, and the bird escaped from the cage. The deception was not discovered till next morning, but by that time he was far distant, and, according to a plan previously arranged by Eliza, was secreted at Greenock, till a vessel was ready to sail for America. He landed in the United States, and soon contrived to make himself a denizen of that country, renouncing for ever his allegiance to Great Britain; only regretting that the dust of his Mary lay in a soil which he had sworn never more to tread. He continued to pursue the occupation of a farmer, and at last fell in defence of America, during the descent made by General Pakenham, near New Orleans, in 1814.