As for the other apprentices, only _some_ wrought steadily on, with

unflinching courage. Most of them, who were beginners, like Randal,

idled when the master locksmith chanced to leave the forge, and skimped

their work, and grumbled, and declared there was nothing in the palace

worth the labour.

One boy, whose key was almost shaped, gave up in despair, cried out that

all the treasures of Fairyland should not induce him to work another

minute; then flung down his tools upon the ground, tore off his apron,

and ran out into the green fields.

This discouraged many of the little workmen, who, one by one, dropped

their implements, and slipped away, murmuring that the task was too

difficult and tedious.

Poor Randal felt sorely tempted to follow their example; and indeed he

might have yielded, too, had not one pale-faced, earnest-looking boy,

who held a file and piece of polished metal in his hand, exclaimed,--

"Six times have I tried my key in the lock of the palace door, and all

in vain. The _seventh_ time I must succeed--and then--the treasures are

mine!"

"What that pale-faced boy can do, I can do," said Randal to himself;

and, like a thorough workman, he set himself bravely to his task,

determined, come what might, to finish it.

And every morning, when Randal left his home, and started for the forge,

he took his way through the pine grove, just to gaze a moment with awe

and admiration at the fairy palace, and for the twentieth time to fancy

himself deftly turning the key in the lock, and gliding softly in.

But once, as he hastened by at break of day, whom should he meet but

Sylvan, the squire's son, setting out with a couple of terriers to hunt

for weasels.

"Where are you going so early?" said Sylvan; and Randal told him.

Then the young squire laughed aloud, and cried out, "Oh, I have been a

locksmith too at the four roads' end! My father made me go and work like

a common slave. But I have had enough of that sort of life, and I don't

wish to hear anything more about 'locks and keys, and fairy palaces.'

Come with me, and I'll teach you how to set a trap."

But Randal silently shook his head, and went his way to the forge at the

four roads' end. Sylvan's words, however, continued to ring in his ears,

and spoiled his heart for his labour. And all that day the smithy seemed

in his eyes like an ugly den, and himself and the little locksmiths like

so many toil-worn slaves. And now he chafed and fretted; and now he

loitered at his work; and now he hastened to make up for squandered

time. And then, alas, in his haste, he broke the key he was making.

"Here's a pretty mess!" cried Randal in despair. "Must I start at the

beginning again? Or shall I give it up altogether? Ah! why did I hear

about the fairy palace at all?"

The temptation was strong to fling down his tools, as many another

before him had done, and leave the anvil for ever. Randal's ten fingers

were just raised to unfasten the ties of his leather apron, when a

joyous cry rang through the forge.

It came from the pale-faced, earnest-looking lad, who held up his

shining new key now completed. "My seventh trial," he shouted, with

tears in his eyes, "and I know that it is perfect!" and he bounded forth

in the direction of the wonderful mansion in the forest.

At the sight of the pale boy's success Randal blushed deep red, and bit

his lip; then, picking up his instruments one by one, he begged the

master to give him another bit of iron.

After that, the little locksmith wrought the livelong day with more

energy and greater courage than any one at the forge. Before daybreak

now he hastened to his work, ever choosing the nearest way, and avoiding

the wood, lest he might encounter idle Sylvan, the squire's son. But

once, at eventide, whom should he chance to meet but the gentle,

pale-faced boy, coming from the fairy house, and looking so radiant and

happy, that Randal rushed towards him, and questioned him about the

treasures.

"Oh, Randal!" cried his friend, "you will simply be enchanted when you

come. For, once within the fairy palace, you must look and listen, and

laugh, and admire."

"Oh, tell me no more," cried the little locksmith, "my key is almost

finished!"

After this many more days passed in silent, steady toil; until at last,

one bright morning in early Spring, as the sunbeams were breaking

through the mist, Randal quietly laid down his file, and, nervously

clasping a brightly-polished key in his vigorous young hand, glided

softly from the smithy, and out into the cool air.

The master locksmith stepped to the threshold to look after him; and,

as he shaded his hand with his horny palm, and watched the lad's

retreating figure, a smile of satisfaction and approval flitted across

his wrinkled face.

The new key turned smoothly in the lock, the door was opened, and he

entered in.

Randal wandered through the fairy palace. He found himself in beautiful

apartments, lofty, grand and airy, containing countless lovely and

curious objects. Some of these he could only look at; others he might

feel and handle at his pleasure.

There were portraits of kings and great warriors, pictures of

battlefields and processions, which filled his mind with wonder; of

quaint streets, and homely firesides, and little children attired in

funny costumes, that made him laugh, and clap his hands, and hold his

sides for merriment.

In another apartment were various kinds of coloured glasses and prisms,

through which the little Langaffer lad looked at strange countries he

had never dreamed of before. Nay, from a certain oriel window he

discovered stars, so many and so beautiful that he trembled with

delight.

And, all the time, there were other children from other villages

rambling, like Randal, through the chambers of the fairy mansion. They

moved gently about from room to room, taking one another's hands, and

holding their breaths in astonishment. And only one subdued murmur

filled the air of "Oh, how lovely, how fine! Ah, how strange!" For,

besides all these things, there were exquisite flowers to be seen, and

animals of every shape and size, and pearls and corals, precious stones

and sparkling gems, and pretty contrivances for the children to play

with.

And the very best of it all was, that Randal possessed the key which he

himself had made. He was as much the lord of the "wonderful palace" now

as any one!

The villagers were indeed astonished when Randal went home, and related

to them what he had seen. And they all _respected_ the little locksmith,

who, by his own honest toil, had gotten what they called, "The Key to

the Treasures of Fairyland."

ROMANCE IN HISTORY.

HOW CICELY DANCED BEFORE THE KING.

BY THOMAS ARCHER.

The old manor-house of Sir Christopher Burroughs of Stolham, Norfolk,

lay shining in the last rays of the setting sun, on the eve of May Day

1646. The long range of windows along the front of the building between

the two buttresses flashed with crimson and gold; for the house faced

the south-west, and the brilliant light that shone from the rim of the

blood-red cloud behind which the sun was sinking, glowed deep on the

diamond panes. But the house was lighted within as well as without. In

the large low-ceilinged dining-hall wax candles burned in great silver

sconces, and the cloth was laid for supper. In the upper room the gleams

that came through the spaces between the heavy curtains showed that

there was company there. If any one had gone close to the porch and

listened, he could have heard the sound of voices talking loudly, and

now and then a laugh, or could have seen the shadows of servants passing

to and fro in the buttery just within the great hall; nay, any one going

round the corner of the house where there was an angle of the wall of

the garden, could have heard from an upper window the sound of a lute

playing a slow and stately measure, and if his ears had been very sharp

indeed, he would have detected the light footfalls of dancers on the

polished oaken floor.

It was an exciting time; for King Charles I and his cavaliers and the

army that they commanded had been beaten by Oliver Cromwell and the

soldiers of the Parliament at Naseby, in Northamptonshire, and the King

had lost all his baggage and his letters and papers. After this Charles

had been from place to place with his army, till he reached Oxford,

where his council was staying, and from this town he thought he should

be able either to get to London or to go northward and join the Scotch

army.

But news had just come to Sir Christopher Burroughs that Cromwell and

his general, Fairfax, had marched to Newbury, only a mile from Oxford;

and though the worthy knight of Stolham was not fighting for the King

any more than most of his neighbours in Norfolk were, he was more on the

side of the Royal cause than on that of the Parliament; so that the

report of the King's danger gave him a good deal of anxiety, and he and

his friends and their ladies were talking about it as they waited for

the butler to come and tell them that supper was ready. The troubles of

the times did not always prevent people from eating and drinking and

having merry-makings. The people around Stolham did not care enough for

the Royal cause to give up all pleasures; and some of them--friends of

Sir Christopher too--were more inclined to side with the Parliament and

the Puritan generals, though at present they said very little about it;

and Sir Christopher presently called out,--

"Well, we met not to talk of politics or of the King's affairs; so let

us to supper, though I cannot but say that I would fain see the ceasing

of this strife, and the King with his own again."

"Yes, with his own; but not with that which belongs to his subjects,"

said a farmer, who had been fined for not paying the taxes which the

King had ordered to be forced upon the people without the consent of

Parliament.

"Come, come," said Dame Burroughs, laughing and taking the farmer's arm,

"we women hear enough of such talk every day in the week; but to-morrow

will be May Day, and there will be open house to our friends, and for

the lads and lasses, dancing at the May-pole, and a supper in the barn.

Let us keep English hearts within us even in these dark times, and make

merry as we can."

"But methinks the May-pole is no more than a pagan thing, an idol to

encourage to vanity and profane dancing," said a sour-faced man, who had

been standing by the window.

"It may have been a pagan custom once," said Sir Christopher; "and the

same may be said of preaching from a pulpit; but all depends on the way

of it, and not on the thing itself. As to dancing, it is an old custom

enough; there is Scripture warrant for it perhaps, and it comes

naturally to all young creatures. I'll be bound, now, that our Dick and

his little cousin Cicely are at this moment getting the steps of the

gavotte or the other gambadoes that have come to us from France and

Spain, that they may figure before the company to-morrow."

"That are they!" said the dame laughing, as a servant opened the door,

and each of Sir Christopher's friends gave a hand to a lady to lead them

down to supper. "Hark! don't you hear my kinswoman's lute? Poor, kind

Dorothy, she will play to them for the hour long, and likes nothing

better. I can hear their little feet pit-a-patting; and Dick would

insist on putting on his new fine suit, all brave with Spanish point and

ribbon velvet, and the boy has buckled on a sword, too, while the little

puss, Cicely, not to be backward, is all a prop with a stiff petticoat

and a brocaded fardingale, and has on her little silk cap with the

pearls, just as I have heard the fashion is among the Queen's French

ladies of honour. Hark! there they go, tum-tum-ty, tum-twenty-tum,

tum-twenty-tum! Bless their little hearts!"

The sour-faced man made a grimace; for his wife was just before him, and

he could see her feet moving in time to the music as they all went down

into the great hall laughing and talking; nor did the sound of the music

cease till it was shut out by the closing of the door after they had sat

down to supper; and even then it came upon them in gushes of melody

every time a servant opened the door, to bring in another dish or a

flagon of ale or of wine.

They heard it when, supper being nearly over, the butler came in softly

and whispered to Sir Christopher, who, asking them to excuse him for a

moment, went out into the hall.

A horseman was standing there, booted and spurred, and with his riding

whip in his hand, and his steed was snorting, and scraping the ground

outside.

"Do you know me again, Sir Christopher?" said the man, in a low voice.

"Let me bring you to the light," muttered the knight, leading him to the

porch where there was a lantern hanging. "To be sure. I have seen you up

at Whitehall and at Oxford, too, and are not likely to forget His

Majesty's Groom of the Chambers. How fares it with our Royal Master?"

"Why, it stands this way, sir, as I take it," whispered the visitor.

"His Majesty must either fly the country or reach the army of the Scots,

which he has no liking for, or raise the eastern counties and risk

another battle. As it is, we have come safe out of Oxford, where Fairfax

and the arch-rebel Cromwell are closing upon the city, and the king has

ridden behind me after I had trimmed off his pointed beard, and made him

look as much like a servant as is possible to his sainted person. I left

him an hour ago after we had left Deeping, for I came on here to see if

you could receive him, not according to his rank, but as a plain guest,

with the name of Thomas Williams; for there are those about who might be

meddlesome, and His Majesty can only tarry for two or three days,

waiting for a message from the Scots generals, to be brought by a trusty

hand. I had feared that His Majesty would have overtaken me, for my

horse cast a shoe, and came limping along for a mile or more, till at

the smithy yonder by the roadside I found a farrier."

"Bring my dear friend Mr. Thomas Williams on with you," said Sir

Christopher loudly, as the door opened and a serving man came out; "he

shall be welcome for old times' sake when we were at college together,

and tell him I will not have him put up at the inn while there is a bed

and a bottle at Stolham Manor."

Now neither Sir Christopher nor this visitor, who was the King's Groom

of the Chamber, knew that the King, hearing the sound of horsemen behind

him, had ridden past and turned down a bye-road, which all the same led

him to Stolham; still less did they imagine that he was actually in the

old manor house while they were talking there in the hall; because they

had no notion of what had happened in the room where Mistress Dorothy

was twanging the lyre, and the two young cousins were footing to the

tune of Valparaiso Bay.

While the children were in the very midst of a figure and Dick was

snapping his fingers, and Cicely was making the grand _chasse_, Mistress

Dorothy, glancing up from her music towards the window, had seen a pale

face looking through the pane. She was not a woman to scream or to

faint, for she was a quiet, staid, middle-aged person of much

experience, and had lived in London, where she went to Court more than

once with Sir Christopher and her kinswoman Dame Burroughs; so she kept

on playing, and walked a little nearer to the window. The man who was

outside--for it was a man, and he had climbed the angle of the wall, and

now sat amidst the ivy close to the window-sill--beckoned to her, and as

she advanced opened the breast of his coat, and showed a great jewel

fastened with a gold chain under his vest.

Another moment, and she had unfastened the window, and he had raised

himself to the sill and come in. He was dressed like a servant,--a

groom,--for he wore high riding-boots and spurs, and had a cloak

strapped round his waist; he seemed to forget to take off his hat, but

stood still in the middle of the room, as Mistress Dorothy suddenly

knelt before him, and said in a whisper, "Children, children, kneel; it

is the King!"

Then the visitor removed his hat and showed his high, handsome face.

Dick and Cicely also fell on their knees, but the King said, "Rise,

madam; rise, little ones; and pardon my intrusion. I am travelling

secretly, and was on my way hither when I found that I was followed, and

so left my horse at the inn in the next village, and walked on. I would

not that Sir Christopher Burroughs should be summoned, for my pursuers

will ere long be at the gate, and, not finding me here, may pass."

Now Dick Burroughs was as sharp a little blade as could be found between

Stolham and Land's End, and quick as lightning he said, "But, Majesty,

if it be no offence, let Cousin Cicely and I go on with our dancing, for

there be some friends of Sir Christopher at supper, and should they or

the servants no longer hear the lute, and think that we be tired, they

may be sent to call us to bed, seeing that to-morrow will be May Day,

and we shall rise early."

"And then, Your Majesty," lisped Cicely, "if anybody break in and come

up here and see us dancing, they will go away, and you can hide behind

the hangings yonder."

"You are a bright lad, and you a loyal little lady," said Charles, with

a grave smile.

"There is a horseman coming up the road," said Dick, in a whisper. "Your

Majesty had best find a hiding-place, and I will show it you. Above this

room is the turret, and behind the hangings here is a door, where a

ladder goes straight up the wall to take you to the turret-room, from

which you can see far up and down the road. Let me go first and light

Your Majesty, and carry your cloak." Then, taking a candle from the

music stand, he began to mount the steps.

"Thou'rt a brave lad," said the King, "and I'll follow thee."

"And it shall go hard but I'll get thee some supper, your Majesty," said

Dick; "but Cis and I must keep on dancing till all the guests be

gone,--and you will see who comes and leaves,--even if it be till

daybreak, for there is a May moon shining all night."

"Now, Mistress Dorothy, now, Cis," cried Dick, when he had come down and

closed door and curtain, "music, music, for we must keep on dancing."

The dancing never ceased, but Dick stole to the buttery and found a pie

and a flagon of wine, which he carried with cup, knife, and napkin, to

the King in the turret-room, and then down to dance again, till his legs

ached and poor Cicely began to droop.

There was a knock at the door, and the stumbling of feet upon the stair,

and then the voice of Sir Christopher outside saying, "What warrant ye

have to enter this house I know not; but as you take not my word, look

for yourselves.' With that he opened the door, and two men looked into

the room.

"Dance up, Cis," whispered Dick, who gave a skip, and pretended to see

nobody. "Play a little faster, Mistress Dorothy."

"Now," said Sir Christopher, to the two fellows who stood outside,

"mayhap you will leave these children to their sport till it is time for

them to go to bed;" and with that he shut the door, and the fellows went

lumbering down the stair. It seemed to be hours afterward when Sir

Christopher again appeared. He opened the door suddenly, and he was not

alone. Dame Burroughs was with him and a strange gentleman.

"What! not in bed, you naughty rogues!" he said, as his eye fell on

Cissy, who was sitting on the floor, her head upon her hands, fast

asleep.

"Dick, lad, what ails thee?" For Dick was standing by the hangings with

the sword that he carried half-drawn from the scabbard, and great black

rings round his eyes, and his legs trembling.

"Come, Dick," said the knight, "this is His Majesty's Groom of the

Chambers, and I would that we knew where our royal master could be

found."

"Here he is," said a deep voice from behind the curtain, as the King

drew it aside and stepped into the room. The music ceased, Madame

Dorothy gave a great cry. Charles stooped and caught up Cicely from the

ground in his arms and kissed her.

"Come, sweetheart," he said, "thou hast danced for the King till thou

art half-dead, but the King will not forget thee. Richard, thou'rt a

brave lad, and thou must come and kiss me, too. If we both live, thou

shalt not repent having served Charles Stuart both with head and feet."

A MOTHER OF QUEENS.

_A ROMANCE OF HISTORY._

One day, I will not say how many years ago, a young woman stepped from a

country waggon that had just arrived at the famous Chelsea inn, "the

Goat and Compasses," a name formed by corrupting time out of the pious

original, "God encompasseth us."

The young woman seemed about eighteen years of age and was neatly

dressed, though in the plain rustic fashion of the times. She was well

formed and good-looking, both form and looks giving indications of the

ruddy health due to the bright sun and the fresh air of the country.

After stepping from the waggon, which the driver immediately led into

the court-yard, the girl stood for a moment uncertain which way to go,

when the mistress of the inn, who had come to the door, observed her

hesitation, and asked her to enter and take a rest.

The young woman readily accepted the invitation, and soon after, by the

kindness of the landlady, found herself by the fireside of a nicely

sanded parlour, with a good meal before her--welcome indeed after her

long and tedious journey.

"And so, my girl," said the landlady, after having heard the whole

particulars of the young woman's situation and history, "so thou hast

come all this way to seek service, and hast no friend but John Hodge,

the waggoner? Truly, he is like to give thee but small help, wench,

towards getting a place."

"Is service, then, difficult to be had?" asked the young woman, sadly.

"Ay, marry, good situations, at least, are somewhat hard to find. But

have a good heart, child," said the landlady, and as she continued she

looked round her with an air of pride and dignity; "thou see'st what I

have come to, myself; and I left the country a young thing, just like

thyself, with as little to look to. But 'tisn't every one, for certain,

that must look for such a fortune, and, in any case, it must first be

worked for. I showed myself a good servant before my poor old Jacob,

heaven rest his soul, made me mistress of 'the Goat and Compasses.' So

mind thee, girl----"

The landlady's speech might have continued indefinitely--for the good

dame loved well to hear the sound of her own voice--but for the

interruption occasioned by the entrance of a gentleman, whom the

landlady rose and welcomed heartily.

"Ha! dame," said the new-comer, who was a stout respectably attired man

of middle age, "how sells the good ale? Scarcely a drop left in thy

cellars, I hope?"

"Enough left to give your worship a draught after your long walk," said

the landlady, as she rose to fulfil the promise implied in her words. "I

did not walk," was the gentleman's reply, "but took a pair of oars down

the river. Thou know'st, dame, I always come to Chelsea myself to see if

thou lackest anything."

"Ay, sir," replied the landlady, "and it is by that way of doing

business that you have made yourself, as all the city says, the richest

man in the Brewers' Corporation, if not in all London itself."

"Well, dame, the better for me if it is so," said the brewer, with a

smile; "but let us have thy mug, and this pretty friend of thine shall

pleasure us, mayhap, by tasting with us."

The landlady was not long in producing a stoup of ale, knowing that her

visitor never set an example hurtful to his own interests by

countenancing the consumption of foreign spirits.

"Right, hostess," said the brewer, when he had tasted it, "well made and

well kept, and that is giving both thee and me our dues. Now, pretty

one," said he, filling one of the measures or glasses which had been

placed beside the stoup, "wilt thou drink this to thy sweetheart's

health?"

The poor country girl to whom this was addressed declined the proffer

civilly, and with a blush; but the landlady exclaimed:

"Come, silly wench, drink his worship's health; he is more likely to do

thee a service, if it so please him, than John the waggoner. The girl

has come many a mile," continued the hostess, "to seek a place in town,

that she may burden her family no more at home."

"To seek service!" exclaimed the brewer; "why, then, it is perhaps well

met with us. Has she brought a character with her, or can you speak for

her, dame?"

"She has never yet been from home, sir, but her face is her character,"

said the kind-hearted landlady; "I warrant me she will be a diligent and

trusty one."

"Upon thy prophecy, hostess, will I take her into my own service; for

but yesterday was my housekeeper complaining of the want of help, since

my office in the corporation has brought me more into the way of

entertaining the people of the ward."

Ere the wealthy brewer and deputy left "the Goat and Compasses,"

arrangements were made for sending the country girl to his house in the

city on the following day.

Proud of having done a kind action, the garrulous hostess took advantage

of the circumstance to deliver a long harangue to the young woman on her

new duties, and on the dangers to which youth is exposed in large

cities. The girl listened to her with modest thankfulness, but a more

minute observer than the good landlady might have seen in the eye and

countenance of the girl a quiet firmness of expression, such as might

have shown the lecture to be unnecessary. However, the landlady's

lecture ended, and towards the evening of the day following her arrival

at "the Goat and Compasses," the girl found herself installed as

housemaid in the home of the rich brewer.

The fortunes of this girl it is our purpose to follow. It was not long

before the post of housekeeper became vacant, and the girl, recommended

by her own industry and skill, became housekeeper in the brewer's

family. In this situation she was brought more than formerly into

contact with her master, who found ample grounds for admiring her

propriety of conduct, as well as her skilful economy of management. By

degrees he began to find her presence necessary to his happiness; and at

length offered her his hand. It was accepted; and she, who but four or

five years before had left her country home a poor peasant girl, became

the wife of one of the richest citizens of London.

For many years, Mr. Aylesbury, for such was the name of the brewer, and

his wife, lived in happiness and comfort together. He was a man of good

family and connections, and consequently of higher breeding than his

wife could boast of, but on no occasion had he ever to blush for the

partner whom he had chosen.

Her calm, inborn strength, if not dignity, of character, united with an

extreme quickness of perception, made her fill her place at her

husband's table with as much grace and credit as if she had been born to

the station. As time ran on, Mr. Aylesbury became an alderman, and,

subsequently, a sheriff of the city, and in consequence of the latter

elevation, was knighted.

Afterwards the important place which the wealthy brewer filled in the

city called down upon him the attention and favour of the king, Charles

I., then anxious to conciliate the goodwill of the citizens, and the

city knight received the farther honour of a baronetcy.

Lady Aylesbury, in the first years of her married life, gave birth to a

daughter, who proved an only child, and around whom, as was natural, all

the hopes and wishes of the parents entwined themselves. This daughter

had only reached the age of seventeen when her father died, leaving an

immense fortune behind him.

It was at first thought that the widow and her daughter would become

inheritors of this without the shadow of a dispute. But it proved

otherwise. Certain relatives of the deceased brewer set up a plea upon

the foundation of a will made in their favour before he married.

With her wonted firmness, Lady Aylesbury immediately took steps for the

vindication of her rights.

A young lawyer, who had been a frequent guest at her husband's table,

and of whose abilities she had formed a high opinion, was the person

whom she fixed upon as her legal representative. Edward Hyde was,

indeed, a youth of great ability. Though only twenty-four years of age

at the period referred to, and though he had spent much of his youthful

time in the society of the gay and fashionable of the day, he had not

neglected the pursuits to which his family's wish, as well as his own

tastes, had devoted him. But it was with considerable hesitation, and

with a feeling of anxious diffidence, that he consented to undertake the

charge of Lady Aylesbury's case; for certain feelings were at work in

his heart which made him fearful of the responsibility, and anxious

about the result.

The young lawyer, however, became counsel for the brewer's widow and

daughter, and, by a striking display of eloquence and legal knowledge,

gained their suit.

Two days afterwards, the successful pleader was seated beside his two

clients. Lady Aylesbury's usual manner was quiet and composed, but she

now spoke warmly of her gratitude to the preserver of her daughter from

want, and also tendered a fee--a payment munificent, indeed, for the

occasion.

The young barrister did not seem at ease during Lady Aylesbury's

expression of her feelings. He shifted upon his chair, changed colour,

looked to Miss Aylesbury, played with the purse before him, tried to

speak, but stopped short, and changed colour again. Thinking only of

best expressing her own gratitude, Lady Aylesbury appeared not to

observe her visitor's confusion, but rose, saying:

"In token that I hold your services above compensation in the way of

money, I wish also to give you a memorial of my gratitude in another

shape."

As she spoke thus, she drew from her pocket a bunch of keys such as

every lady carried in those days, and left the room.

What passed during her absence between the young people whom she had

left together will be shown by the sequel. When Lady Aylesbury returned,

she found her daughter standing with averted eyes, with her hand in that

of the young barrister, who knelt on the mother's entrance, and besought

her consent to their union. Confessions of mutual affection ensued, and

Lady Aylesbury was not long in giving her consent to their wishes.

"Give me leave, however," said she to the lover, "to place around your

neck the memorial which I intended for you. The chain"--it was a superb

gold one--"was a token of gratitude, from the ward in which he lived, to

my dear husband." Lady Aylesbury's calm, serious eyes were filled with

tears as she threw the chain round Edward's neck, saying, "These links

were borne on the neck of a worthy and an honoured man. May thou, my

beloved son, attain to still higher honours."

The wish was fulfilled, though not until danger and suffering had tried

severely the parties concerned. The son-in-law of Lady Aylesbury became

an eminent member of the English bar, and also an important speaker in

Parliament.

When Oliver Cromwell brought the king to the scaffold, and established

the Commonwealth, Sir Edward Hyde--for he had held a government post,

and had been knighted--was too prominent a member of the royalist party

to escape the attention of the new rulers, and was obliged to reside

upon the continent till the Restoration.

While abroad, he was so much esteemed by the exiled prince (afterwards

Charles II.) as to be appointed Lord High Chancellor of England, which

appointment was confirmed when the king was restored to his throne. Some

years afterwards, Hyde was elevated to the peerage, first in the rank of

a baron, and subsequently as Earl of Clarendon, a title which he made

famous in English history.

These events, so briefly narrated, occupied considerable time, during

which Lady Aylesbury passed her days in quiet and retirement. She had

now the gratification of beholding her daughter Countess of Clarendon,

and of seeing the grandchildren who had been born to her mingling as

equals with the noblest in the land.

But a still more exalted fate awaited the descendants of the poor

friendless girl who had come to London, in search of service, in a

waggoner's van. Her granddaughter, Anne Hyde, a young lady of spirit,

wit, and beauty, had been appointed, while her family were living

abroad, one of the maids of honour to the Princess of Orange, and in

that situation had attracted so strongly the regard of James, Duke of

York, and brother of Charles II., that he contracted a private marriage

with her.

The birth of a child forced on a public announcement of this contract,

and ere long the granddaughter of Lady Aylesbury was openly received by

the Royal Family, and the people of England, as Duchess of York, and

sister-in-law of the sovereign.

Lady Aylesbury did not long survive this event. But ere she sunk into

the grave, at a ripe old age, she saw her descendants heirs-presumptive

of the British Crown. King Charles had married, but had no children,

and, accordingly, his brother's family had the prospect and the right of

succession. And, in reality, two immediate descendants of the poor

peasant girl did ultimately fill the throne--Mary (wife of William

III.), and Queen Anne.

Such were the fortunes of the young woman whom the worthy landlady of

"the Goat and Compasses" was fearful of encouraging to rash hopes by a

reference to the lofty position it had been her good fortune to attain

in life. In one assertion, at least, the hostess was undoubtedly

right--success in life must be laboured for in some way or other.

Without the prudence and propriety of conduct which won the esteem and

love of her wealthy employer, the sequel of the country girl's history

could not have been such as it was.

THE STORY OF GRIZEL COCHRANE.

_A ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE._

BY W. R. C.

Sir John Cochrane of Ochiltree, the father of our heroine, was the

second son of the first Earl of Dundonald. He was a distinguished friend

of Sidney, Russell, and other illustrious men, who signalised themselves

in England by their opposition to the court; and he had so long

endeavoured in vain to procure some improvement in the national affairs,

that he at length began to despair of his country altogether, and formed

the design of emigrating to America. Having gone to London in 1683, with

a view to a colonising expedition to South Carolina, he became involved

in the deliberations of the Whig party, which at that time tended

towards a general insurrection in England and Scotland, for the purpose

of forcing an alteration of the royal councils and the exclusion of the

Duke of York from the throne. In furtherance of this plan, Sir John

pledged himself to assist the Earl of Argyle in raising the malcontents

in Scotland.

By the treachery of some of the subordinate agents this design was

detected prematurely; and while some were unfortunately taken and

executed, among whom were Sidney and Lord Russell, the rest fled from

the kingdom. Of the latter number were the Earl of Argyle, Sir John

Cochrane, and Sir Patrick Hume of Polwarth. The fugitives found safety

in Holland, where they remained in peace till the death of Charles II.

in February 1685, when the Duke of York, the object politically of their

greatest detestation, became king. It was then determined to invade

Scotland with a small force, to embody the Highland adherents of Argyle

with the west country Presbyterians, and, marching into England, to

raise the people as they moved along, and not rest till they had

produced the desired melioration of the state. The expedition sailed in

May; but the Government was enabled to take such precautions as, from

the very first, proved a complete frustration to their designs. Argyle

lingered timidly in his own country, and, finally, against the advice of

Cochrane and Hume, who were his chief officers, made some unfortunate

movements, which ended in the entire dissolution of his army, and his

own capture and death. While this well-meaning but weak nobleman

committed himself to a low disguise, in the vain hope of effecting his

escape, Sir John Cochrane, after a gallant fight against overwhelming

numbers, finding his enemies were gathering large reinforcements,

retired with his troops to a neighbouring wilderness or morass, where he

dismissed them, with the request that each man would provide the best

way he could for his own safety. For himself, having received two severe

wounds in the body during the engagement, and being worn out with

fatigue, he sought refuge in the house of his uncle, Mr. Gavin Cochrane

of Craigmuir, who lived at no great distance from the place of

encounter. Here he was seized and removed to Edinburgh, where, after

being paraded through the streets bound and bare-headed, and conducted

by the common hangman, he was lodged in the tollbooth on July 3rd, 1685,

there to await his trial as a traitor. The day of trial came, and he was

condemned to death, in spite of the most strenuous exertions of his aged

father, Earl of Dundonald.

No friend or relative had been permitted to see him from the time of his

apprehension; but it was now signified to him that any of his family he

desired to communicate with might be allowed to visit him. Anxious,

however, to deprive his enemies of an opportunity of an accusation

against his sons, he immediately conveyed to them his earnest

entreaties, and indeed commands, that they should refrain from availing

themselves of this leave till the night before his execution. This was a

sacrifice which it required his utmost fortitude to make; and it had

left him to a sense of the most desolate loneliness, insomuch that,

when, late in the evening, he heard his prison door unlocked, he lifted

not his eyes toward it, imagining that the person who entered could only

be the gaoler, who was particularly repulsive in his countenance and

manner. What, then, was his surprise and momentary delight when he

beheld before him his only daughter, and felt her arms entwining his

neck! After the first transport of greeting she became sensible that, in

order to palliate his misery, she must put a strong curb upon her own,

and in a short time was calm enough to enter into conversation with her

father upon the subject of his present situation, and to deliver a

message from the old earl, her grandfather, by which he was informed

that an appeal had been made from him to the king, and means taken to

propitiate Father Peters, his Majesty's confessor, who, it was well

known, often dictated to him in matters of state. It appeared evident,

however, by the turn which their discourse presently took, that neither

father nor daughter were at all sanguine in their hopes from this

negotiation. The Earl of Argyle had been executed but a few days before,

as had also several of his principal adherents, though men of less

consequence than Sir John Cochrane; and it was therefore improbable that

he, who had been so conspicuously active in the insurrection, should be

allowed to escape the punishment which his enemies had it now in their

power to inflict. Besides all this, the treaty to be entered into with

Father Peters would require some time to adjust, and meanwhile the

arrival of the warrant for execution must every day be looked for.

Under these circumstances, several days passed, each of which found Miss

Grizel Cochrane an inmate of her father's prison for as many hours as

she was permitted. Grizel Cochrane was only at that period eighteen

years old; she had, however, a natural strength of character, that

rendered her capable of a deed which has caused her history to vie with

that of the most distinguished of heroines.

Ever since her father's condemnation, her daily and nightly thoughts had

dwelt on the fear of her grandfather's communication with the king's

confessor being rendered unavailable for want of the time necessary for

enabling the friends in London to whom it was trusted, to make their

application, and she boldly determined to execute a plan, whereby the

arrival of the death-warrant would be retarded.

At that time horses were used as a mode of conveyance so much more than

carriages that almost every gentlewoman had her own steed, and Miss

Cochrane, being a skilful rider, was possessed of a well-managed

palfrey, on whose speed and other good qualities she had been accustomed

to depend. One morning after she had bidden her father farewell, long

ere the inhabitants of Edinburgh were astir, she found herself many

miles on the road to the borders. She had taken care to attire herself

in a manner which corresponded with the design of passing herself off

for a young serving-woman journeying on a borrowed horse to the house of

her mother in a distant part of the country; and by only resting at

solitary cottages, where she generally found the family out at work,

save perhaps an old woman or some children, she had the good fortune, on

the second day after leaving Edinburgh, to reach in safety the abode of

her old nurse, who lived on the English side of the Tweed, four miles

beyond the town of Berwick. In this woman she knew she could place

implicit confidence, and to her, therefore, revealed her secret. She had

resolved, she said, to make an attempt to save her father's life, by

stopping the postman, an equestrian like herself, and forcing him to

deliver up his bags, in which she expected to find the fatal warrant. In

pursuance of this design she had brought with her a brace of small

pistols, together with a horseman's cloak, tied up in a bundle, and hung

on the crutch of her saddle, and now borrowed from her nurse the attire

of her foster-brother, which, as he was a slight-made lad, fitted her

reasonably well.

She had, by means which it is unnecessary here to detail, possessed

herself of the most minute information with regard to the places at

which the postmen rested on their journey, one of which was a small

public-house, kept by a widow woman, on the outskirts of the little town

of Belford. There the man who received the bag at Durham was accustomed

to arrive about six o'clock in the morning, and take a few hours' repose

before proceeding farther on his journey. In pursuance of the plan laid

down by Miss Cochrane, she arrived at this inn about an hour after the

man had composed himself to sleep, in the hope of being able, by the

exercise of her wit and dexterity, to ease him of his charge.

Having put her horse into the stable, which was a duty that devolved on

the guests at this little change-house, from its mistress having no

ostler, she entered the only apartment which the house afforded, and

demanded some refreshment. "Sit down at the end of that table," said the

old woman, "for the best I have to give you is there already; and be

pleased, my bonny man, to make as little noise as ye can, for there's

ane asleep in that bed that I like ill to disturb." Miss Cochrane

promised fairly; and after attempting to eat some of the viands, which

were the remains of the sleeping man's meal, she asked for some cold

water. "What," said the old dame, as she handed it to her, "ye are a

water-drinker, are ye? It's but an ill custom for a change-house." "I am

aware of that," replied her guest, "and, therefore, when in a public

house, always pay for it the price of the stronger potation, which I

cannot take." "Indeed--well, that is but just," responded the dame, "and

I think the more of you for such reasonable conduct." "Is the well where

you get this water near at hand?" said the young lady; "for if you will

take the trouble to bring me some from it, as this is rather warm, it

shall be considered in the lawing." "It is a good bit off," said the

woman; "but I cannot refuse to fetch some for such a civil, discreet

lad, and will be as quick as I can. But, for any sake, take care and

don't meddle with these pistols," she continued, pointing to a pair of

pistols on the table, "for they are loaded, and I am always terrified

for them." Saying this, she disappeared; and Miss Cochrane, who would

have contrived some other errand for her had the well been near, no

sooner saw the door shut than she passed, with trembling eagerness, and

a cautious but rapid step, across the floor to the place where the man

lay soundly sleeping in one of those close wooden bedsteads common in

the houses of the poor, the door of which was left half open to admit

the air, and which she opened still wider, in the hope of seeing the

mail-bag and being able to seize upon it. But what was her dismay when

she beheld only a part of the integument which contained what she would

have sacrificed her life a thousand times to obtain just peeping out

from below the shaggy head and brawny shoulders of its keeper, who lay

in such a position upon it as to give not the smallest hope of its

extraction without his being aroused from his nap. A few moments of

observation served to convince her that, if she obtained possession of

this treasure, it must be in some other way, and again closing the door

of the bed, she approached the pistols, and having taken them one by one

from the holsters she as quickly as possible drew out their loading,

which, having secreted, she returned them to their cases, and resumed

her seat at the foot of the table. Here she had barely time to recover

from the agitation into which the fear of the man's awaking during her

recent occupation had thrown her, when the old woman returned with the

water, and having taken a draught, of which she stood much in need, she

settled her account, much to her landlady's content, by paying for the

water the price of a pot of beer. Having then carelessly asked and

ascertained how much longer the other guest was likely to continue his

sleep, she left the house, and mounting her horse, set off at a trot, in

a different direction from that in which she had arrived. Fetching a

compass of two or three miles, she once more fell into the high road

between Belford and Berwick, where she walked her horse gently on,

awaiting the coming up of the postman. On his coming close up, she

civilly saluted him, put her horse into the same pace with his, and rode

on for some way in his company. He was a strong, thick-set fellow, with

a good-humoured countenance, which did not seem to Miss Cochrane, as she

looked anxiously upon it, to savour much of hardy daring. He rode with

the mail-bags strapped firmly to his saddle in front, close to the

holsters (for there were two), one containing the letters direct from

London, and the other those taken up at the different post-offices on

the road. After riding a short distance together, Miss Cochrane deemed

it time, as they were nearly half-way between Belford and Berwick, to

commence her operations. She therefore rode nearly close to her

companion, and said, in a tone of determination, "Friend, I have taken a

fancy for those mail-bags of yours, and I must have them; therefore take

my advice, and deliver them up quietly, for I am provided for all

hazards. I am mounted, as you see, on a fleet steed; I carry firearms;

and, moreover, am allied with those who are stronger, though not bolder

than myself. You see yonder wood," she continued, pointing to one at the

distance of about a mile, with an accent and air which was meant to

carry intimidation with it. "Again, I say, take my advice; give me the

bags, and speed back the road you came for the present, nor dare to

approach that wood for at least two or three hours to come."

There was in such language from a stripling something so surprising that

the man looked on Miss Cochrane for an instant in silent and unfeigned

amazement. "If," said he, as soon as he found his tongue, "you mean, my

young master, to make yourself merry at my expense, you are welcome. I

am no sour churl to take offence at the idle words of a foolish boy. But

if," he said, taking one of his pistols from the holster, and turning

its muzzle toward her, "ye are mad enough to harbour one serious thought

of such a matter, I am ready for you. But, methinks, my lad, you seem at

an age when robbing a garden or an old woman's fruit-stall would befit

you better, if you must turn thief, than taking his Majesty's mails from

a stout man such as I am upon his highway. Be thankful, however, that

you have met with one who will not shed blood if he can help it, and

sheer off before you provoke me to fire."

"Nay," said his young antagonist, "I am not fonder of bloodshed than you

are; but if you will not be persuaded, what can I do? for I have told

you a truth, _that mail I must and will have_. So now choose," she

continued, as she drew one of the small pistols from under her cloak,

and deliberately cocking it, presented it in his face.

"Nay, then, your blood be on your own head," said the fellow, as he

raised his hand, and fired his pistol, which, however, only flashed in

the pan. Dashing this weapon to the ground, he lost not a moment in

pulling out the other, which he also aimed at his assailant, and fired

with the same result. In a transport of rage and disappointment the man

sprang from his horse and made an attempt to seize her; but, by an

adroit use of her spurs, she eluded his grasp and placed herself out of

his reach. Meanwhile, his horse had moved forward some yards, and to see

and seize the advantage presented by this circumstance was one and the

same to the heroic girl, who, darting toward it, caught the bridle, and

having led her prize off about a hundred yards, stopped while she called

to the thunderstruck postman to remind him of her advice about the wood.

She then put both horses to their speed, and on turning to look at the

man she had robbed, had the pleasure of perceiving that her mysterious

threat had taken effect, and he was now pursuing his way back to

Belford.

Miss Cochrane speedily entered the wood to which she had alluded, and

tying the strange horse to a tree, out of all observation from the road,

proceeded to unfasten the straps of the mail. By means of a sharp

penknife, which set at defiance the appended locks, she was soon

mistress of the contents, and with an eager hand broke open the

Government despatches, which were unerringly pointed out to her by their

address to the council in Edinburgh and their imposing weight and broad

seals of office. Here she found not only the fatal warrant for her

father's death, but also many other sentences inflicting different

degrees of punishment on various delinquents. These, however, it may

readily be supposed, she did not then stop to examine; she contented

herself with tearing them into small fragments and placing them

carefully in her bosom.

The intrepid girl now mounted her steed and rode off, leaving all the

private papers where she had found them, imagining (what eventually

proved the case) that they would be discovered ere long from the hints

she had thrown out about the wood, and thus reach their proper places of

destination. She now made all haste to reach the cottage of her nurse,

where, having not only committed to the flames the fragments of the

dreaded warrant, but also the other obnoxious papers, she quickly

resumed her female garments, and was again, after this manly and daring

action, the simple and unassuming Miss Grizel Cochrane. Leaving the

cloak and pistols behind her, to be concealed by her nurse, she again

mounted her horse and directed her flight towards Edinburgh, and, by

avoiding as much as possible the high road, and resting at sequestered

cottages, as she had done before, and that only twice for a couple of

hours each time, she reached town early in the morning of the next day.

It must now suffice to say that the time gained by the heroic act

related above was productive of the end for which it was undertaken, and

that Sir John Cochrane was pardoned, at the instigation of the king's

favourite counsellor, who interceded for him in consequence of receiving

a bribe of five thousand pounds from the Earl of Dundonald.

A WIFE'S STRATAGEM.

_A TALE OF 1715._

BY LUCY HARDY.

It was with mingled feelings of annoyance and satisfaction that old Lady

Glenlivet and her daughters received the intelligence that the only son

of the house was about to bring an English bride to the grey old Scotch

mansion where so many generations of his "forbears" had lived and died.

Sir Alick was six-and-twenty, and it was therefore fully time that he

should marry and carry on the traditions of the house, and, as the

Glenlivet's fortune did not match their "long pedigree," it was

distinctly an advantage that the newly-wedded bride was so well dowered.

But then, on the other hand, Mistress Mary Wilkinson was an

Englishwoman, and Lady Glenlivet more than suspected the fact (adroitly

veiled in her son's letter) that the young lady's fortune had been made

in trade.

Sir Alick Glenlivet, visiting London for the first time in his life, had

been hospitably entertained by a distant kinsman, a Scotch lawyer, who

had settled in the English metropolis; and at his house had met with the

orphan heiress of a substantial city trader, to whom Simon Glenlivet was

guardian. To Alick, bred up in the comparative seclusion and obscurity

of his Scottish home, the plunge into London life was as bewildering as

delightful; and he soon thought sweet Mary Wilkinson, with her soft blue

eyes and gentle voice, the fairest creature his eyes had ever rested

upon; while to Mary, the handsome young Scotchman was like the hero in a

Border tale.

"Happy the wooing that's not long a-doing." Mistress Mary was

twenty-two, so of legal age to please herself in her choice of a

husband; while Simon Glenlivet was still sufficiently a Scotchman at

heart to consider an alliance with the "ancient and noble family" with

which he himself claimed kinship an advantage which might fairly

outbalance his lack of fortune.

To do the young man justice, Mary's wealth counted for nothing in his

choice; he would as readily have married her had the fortune been all on

his side. Indeed, it was with some qualms of conscience that Sir Alick

now wrote to inform his mother of the sudden step which he had taken;

half fearing that, in the eyes of the proud old Scotch dame, even Mary's

beauty and fortune could scarcely compensate for her lack of "long

descent."

And indeed, Lady Glenlivet's Highland pride was not at all well pleased

to learn that her son had wedded a trader's daughter; though Mary (or

Maisie, as her husband now called her) had received the education of a

refined gentlewoman, and was far more well bred and accomplished than

were the two tall, awkward daughters of the Glenlivet household; or, for

the matter of that, than was the "auld leddy hersel'."

Lady Glenlivet, however, loved her son, and stifled down her feelings of

disapproval for his sake. It was undeniable that Mary's money came in

most usefully in paying off the mortgages which had so long crippled the

Glenlivet estate; and when the bride and bridegroom arrived at their

Scotch home, the ladies were speechless in their admiration at the

bride's "providing." Such marvels of lace and brocades, such treasures

of jewellery, such a display of new fashions had never been known in the

neighbourhood before; and Isobel and Barbara, if not inclined to fall

rapturously in love with their new sister, at least utterly lost their

hearts over her wardrobe--not such a very extensive or extravagant one

after all, the bride had thought; but, in the eighteenth century, a

wealthy London trader's only child would be reared in a far more

luxurious manner than the daughters of many a "long descended" Scotch

household.

Mary, or Maisie, certainly found her new home lacking in many comforts

which were almost necessaries in her eyes; but the girl was young, and

sweet-tempered, and devotedly attached to her brave young husband, who

equally adored his young wife. The prejudice excited against the

new-comer on the score of her nationality and social rank softened down

as the months went by; although old Lady Glenlivet often remarked that

Maisie was "just English" whenever the younger lady's opinions or wishes

did not entirely coincide with her own.

In the kindly patriarchial fashion of Scottish households of the day,

Sir Alick's mother and sisters still resided under his roof; and Maisie,

gentle and retiring by nature, never dreamt of attempting to depose the

old lady from her position of house-mistress; so the "auld leddy" still

kept the keys, and ruled the servants, and was as busy and notable as of

yore; her new daughter being, in truth, often far more submissive to the

good dame's sway than were either Isobel or Barbara, who occasionally

"took the dorts" and would have their own wills.

Yet Maisie was happy enough in her new life--for had she not Alick and

his devotion?--until dark clouds began to gather in the political

horizon.

It was the year 1715, a year to be remembered in many an English and

Scottish household for many a year to come. Whispers of plots and

conspiracies were flying about the land; for the coming of the "wee

German lairdie" was by no means universally acceptable, and many

Jacobites who had acquiesced in the accession of "good Queen Anne"

herself (a member of the ancient royal house), now shrank from

acknowledging "the Elector" as their monarch. Simon Glenlivet, a shrewd

and prudent man, who had lived in London and watched the course of

political events, had long ago laid aside any romantic enthusiasm for

the cause of the exiled Stuarts, if he had ever possessed such a

feeling; realising perhaps the truth of Sir John Maynard's reply to

William III. when the king asked the old man if he had not survived

"all his brother lawyers," "Ay, and if your Majesty had not come, I

might shortly _have survived the law itself_."

Maisie's father, like most of his brother-citizens, had welcomed the

"Deliverer" with acclamations, and would doubtless have greeted the

accession of George I. with equal enthusiasm had he lived to witness it.

It was only after she crossed the Border that Maisie had heard the son

of James II. alluded to save as the "Pretender," to whom his enemies

denied any kinship with the Stuarts at all. Maisie, wise and discreet

beyond her years, speedily learnt to stifle her own political opinions

amid her husband's family circle; though indeed she was no eager

supporter of any party. She had been duly taught that it was a duty to

submit to the "powers that be," and to pray daily for the king; and like

a dutiful little maiden of her time, piously obeyed her teacher's and

guardian's injunctions, without troubling her head as to whether the

actual lawful monarch of England was keeping his court at St. Germains

or St. James'. And Maisie's husband, to tell the truth, was scarcely a

more vehement or interested politician than herself; though Sir Alick

called himself a Jacobite because his father and mother had been

Jacobites before him. Lady Glenlivet, a woman of narrow education and

deeply rooted prejudices, was a strong partisan of the Stuart cause;

strong with all the unreasoning vehemence of a worthy but ignorant

woman. So, when the Earl of Mar's disastrous expedition was being

secretly organised, the emissaries of the plotters found ready

acceptance with the "auld leddy," who scrupled not to press and urge her

son to join the "glorious undertaking" which should restore her lawful

king to Scotland and bring added honours and lands to the Glenlivet

family. Sir Alick, supremely happy in his domestic life, had at first

small desire for embarking in the hazardous scheme of the wisdom and

justice of which he felt less positively assured than did his mother.

Sir Alick had seen something of the world during his visit to London,

and had not been entirely uninfluenced by the views of his wise

kinsman. But Lady Glenlivet was not the only foolish woman at that epoch

who forced a wiser judging husband, son, or brother into joining a

conspiracy which his better sense condemned; and Sir Alick, always

greatly under his mother's influence, at length consented to attend that

historic meeting at Braemar in the autumn of 1715, where, under pretence

of a hunting party, the Earl of Mar assembled the disaffected Scottish

nobility and gentry, and raised the Stuart standard, proclaiming King

James III. of England and VII. of Scotland.

The "fiery cross" was circulated through the Highlands, and Sir Alick

returned to his home to raise a troop of his own tenants and clansmen,

at whose head he proposed to join the Earl of Mar.

Maisie, ordinarily so gentle and retiring, was now roused to unwonted

and passionate protest. The scheme for the threatened "rising" was not

unknown in England; and Simon Glenlivet wrote to his quondam ward,

urging her most strongly to dissuade her husband from joining a rash

conspiracy which could only bring ruin upon all who were engaged in it.

"'Tis hopeless--and I thank Heaven that it is so--to think of

overturning the present condition of things," wrote the cautious London

Scot; "and they who take part in this mad conspiracy--of which the

English Government have fuller details than the conspirators wot

of--will but lose their lands, and it may be their heads to boot. I pray

thee, my pretty Molly, keep thy husband out of this snare."

But this command was not so easily followed. Since his visit to Braemar,

Alick himself had caught the war fever, and, for once, his wife's

entreaties, nay, even her tears and prayers, were disregarded by her

husband! Sir Alick was all love and tenderness, but join the glorious

expedition he must and would, encouraged in this resolve by mother,

sister, and kinsfolk; Maisie's being the only dissenting voice; and, as

Lady Glenlivet tauntingly remarked to her daughter-in-law, "it was not

for the child of a mere English pock-pudding to decide what was fitting

conduct for a Highland noble--Maisie should remember she had wedded into

an honourable house, and not strive to draw her husband aside from the

path of duty."

Unheeded by her husband, derided and taunted by his mother, Maisie could

but weep in silent despair.

And so the day of parting came, and Alick, looking splendidly handsome

in his military attire, stood to take his last farewell of wife and

kindred, and to drink a parting cup to the success of the expedition.

"Fill me the quaick, Maisie," he said, with a kindly smile turning to

his pale and heavy-eyed young wife. "Ye'll soon see me come back again

to bid ye all put on your braws to grace the king's coronation at

Edinburgh." To which hope Lady Glenlivet piously cried "Amen"; and

Maisie turned to mix the stirrup cup, for the morning was raw and cold.

"Let Isobel lift the kettle, lass; it's far too heavy for thee," cried

Lady Glenlivet; but alas! too late, for Maisie stumbled as she turned

from the fire, and the chief part of the scalding water was emptied into

one of the young man's long riding boots.

Alick's sudden yell of pain almost drowned Maisie's sobbing cry, and old

Lady Glenlivet furiously exclaimed, forgetful of all courtesies,--

"Ye wretched gawk! ye little fule! ye ha' killed my puir lad!"

"Nay, nay, na sae bad as that, I judge. Dinna greet, Maisie, my bonnie

bird--ye couldna help it, my dow," cried Alick, recovering himself, and

making a heroic effort to conceal the pain he felt. "Look to her, some

of ye," he added sharply, as Maisie sank fainting on the floor.

It was a very severe scald, said the doctor whom the alarmed household

quickly summoned, and it would be many a long day before Sir Alick would

be fit to wear his boot or put foot in saddle again.

But thanks greatly to the devoted nursing he received from wife and

mother, and to his own youth and health, Sir Alick completely recovered

from the injury. But in the meantime, the bubble had burst, Sherrifmuir

had been fought, Mar's army had been totally routed, the prisons in

England and Scotland had been filled with his misguided followers, and

the headsman and the hangman were beginning their ghastly work.

Sir Alick, thanks to the accident which had prevented his taking any

overt part in the rebellion, had escaped both imprisonment and

confiscation; and it was probably Simon Glenlivet's influence which had

availed to cover over Sir Alick's dalliance with the Jacobite plotters.

Maisie had proved herself a most tender and efficient nurse, but it was

now her turn to be ill, and one quiet day, after she had presented her

lord with an heir to the Glenlivet name, she told him the whole truth

about that lucky accident with the boiling water; but auld Leddy

Glenlivet never knew that her son had been saved from a rebel's fate by

a wife's stratagem.

THE KING'S TRAGEDY.

_AN HISTORICAL TALE._

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

In the year 1436, a party of horsemen, weary and belated, were seen

hurrying amid the deepening darkness of a December day towards the ferry

of the Firth of Forth. Their high carriage, no less than the quality of

their accoutrements, albeit dimmed and travel-stained by the splash of

flood and field, showed them to be more than a mere party of traders

seeking safety in numbers, and travelling in pursuit of gain. In the

centre of the group rode a horseman, whose aspect and demeanour marked

him as the chief, if not the leader, of the band; and by his side a

lady, whose grace and beauty could not be altogether concealed by the

closeness of her attire or the darkness of the night. These were the

King and Queen of Scotland, James the First and his fair wife Joan,

surrounded by a small band of faithful followers, bound for the

monastery of the Black Friars of Perth to hold Christmas Carnival.

The weather and the day were wild enough, and these but only too truly

reflected the surging passions of human hearts. The brave young king's

desire to put down the marauding practices of his Highland subjects, and

bring about a condition of things under which a "key" should be

sufficient keep for a "castle," and a "bracken bush" enough protection

for a "cow," together with, perhaps, a not always wise way of working so

good a cause, had provoked the hostility of some of the Highland chiefs

who lived by stealing their neighbours' property. This disaffection

became formidable under the leadership of Sir Richard Graeme, brother

of the Earl of Stratherne, whose earldom had been confiscated by the

king, who feared its power with perhaps less justice than became his

high purpose, and James and his retainers had need to watch and ward

against open enemies and secret foes.

Silently, if not mournfully, the little band moved on, picking its way

along the uneven shore, and peering anxiously through the deepening

shadows for signs of the distant ferry. Like a cavalcade of ghosts, but

dimly seen as dimly seeing, they pressed on, all eyes for what light

might give them guidance, all ears for what sound might give them

warning.

As they were descending to the beach, at the point where the ferry

crossed the water, sight and sound combined to startle if not to terrify

them; for out from behind a pile of rocks there sprang a wild, weird

woman, who with waving arms and frantic shouts motioned them to go back.

In an instant the whole cavalcade was in confusion. The horses reared

and plunged, the men shouted and demanded who was there, and all the

while the weird figure, whose tattered garments fluttered fantastically

in the wind, waved her skinny arms wildly, and shouted, "Go back!"

Thinking that the woman might have some news of importance to the king,

some of the retainers spurred forward and interrogated her; but she

would say them nothing but "Go back"; adding at last "For the king

alone--for the king alone!" Judging that she might desire to warn him of

some treachery, even among his followers, the king rode forward and

spoke to her, when, waving her hands towards the water, she screamed,

"If once you cross that water, you will never return alive!" The king

asked for news, but the old witch was not a chronicler but a prophetess,

and catching at the king's rein she sought to turn him back.

By this time the retinue had closed in upon the singular pair, and the

queen's anxiety doubtless stimulated the king's action. Shaking from his

rein the woman's hand, he cried, "Forward!" and in a few moments the

party had left the stormy land for the scarce more stormy sea.

After crossing the Firth of Forth the party made rapid progress, and in

due course were safely and comfortably housed in the old monastery of

the Dominicans of Perth. The gaieties of Court and Carnival soon

obliterated, for a time at least, the memory of the discomforts of the

journey; and the warning of the old witch, if remembered at all, was

thought of with pity or dismissed with mirth. The festivities, which

were maintained with vigour and brilliance for a considerable time,

surrounded the king with both friends and foes. Sir Robert Stuart, who

had been promised the kingdom by Sir Richard Graeme, was actually acting

as chamberlain to the king he was plotting to dethrone; and the Earl of

Athole and other conspirators were among the guests who, with loyal

protestations, pledged the king's health and prosperity. Towards the

close of the Carnival, when the month of February 1437 had almost waned

to a close, while the rain beat upon the windows and the wind whistled

wildly around the roof of the old monastery, in grim contrast with the

scene of merriment that graced the halls within, the guests were

startled by a loud knocking at the outer door. The king, gayest among

the gay, was singing "The King's Quhair," a ballad of his own writing,

when the usher interrupted him to announce the old witch of the Firth of

Forth. She says "she must have speech with you," said the usher, and

that her words "admit of no delay." But James was annoyed by the

interruption, and, as it was midnight, ordered her to be sent away,

promising to see her on the morrow. Driven forth at the king's command,

the old beldame wrung her hands, and cried, "Woe! woe! To-morrow I shall

not see his face!" and the usher, upon the king's interrogation,

repeated her words to him and to the queen. Upon hearing them, both were

filled with anxiety and fear, and thinking it best to close the

festivities of the evening the king gave the signal for the finish of

the feast, and the guests slowly separated and left the hall. The king's

chamberlain was the last to leave, and his errand was one of treachery.

During the day the conspirators had been busily preparing for their

opportunity. The locks of the hall had been tampered with so that their

keys were of no avail. The bars by which the gates were barricaded were

removed from their accustomed place. Planks had been surreptitiously

placed across the moat that the enemy might obtain easy access to the

stronghold; and Sir Richard Graeme, with three hundred followers in his

train, was waiting for the signal to advance.

James and his wife stood hand in hand before the log fire of the great

hall, while the bower-maidens of the queen prepared the royal bed in an

alcove leading from the chamber. The old crone's warning had struck

terror to the queen's heart, and unnerved the courage of the king. While

looking anxiously at the burning logs in the fireplace, again they heard

the voice of the witch, inarticulate in its frenzy, uttering a wild,

wailing scream. In an instant the waiting-women had drawn back the

curtains, and the red glow of a hundred torches flashed upon the walls

of the Hall. The king looked round for a weapon, but there was none to

be found; he shouted to the women to shut the bolts, but the bolts had

been removed; he tried the windows, they were fast and barred; and then,

hearing the approach of his enemies along the passage, he stood with

folded arms in the centre of the Hall to wait for death.

Beneath the Hall lay the unused and forgotten vaults of the monastery;

and in the king's extremity it occurred to Catherine Douglas, one of the

waiting-women, that these might give the king a chance of escape. There

was not a moment to lose, so, seizing the heavy tongs from the

fireplace, she forced them into the king's hand, and motioned him to

remove the flooring and hide in the crypt below. Spurred to desperation

the king seized the tongs, and proceeded to force up the flooring of the

hall; but the sound of his approaching enemies came nearer and nearer,

and the flooring was strong and tough. To give time the women made a

desperate attempt to pull a heavy table in front of the door, but it was

heavier than they could move. In another moment the floor had given way,

and, with a hurried embrace, the king squeezed through the flooring and

dropped into the vault. Then came the replacing of the boards--could

they possibly do it in the time? A clash of arms in the passage showed

that at least one sentinel was true; but the arm of one was but a poor

barrier against so large a force. Another moment and the flooring would

give no evidence of the secret that it held, for the queen and her

bower-maidens were replacing it with all speed. Again the tread of the

approaching conspirators; the sentinel has paid for his fidelity with

death. Is there no arm can save?

At this moment, as with a flash of inspiration, the thought came into

her mind. Catherine Douglas, one of the bower-maidens, rushed forward

and thrust her arm through the staple of the removed bolt, and for a

little while a woman's arm held a hundred men at bay.

It was a terrible moment, and as the poor bruised arm gave way at last

Catherine Douglas fell fainting to the floor.

Sir Richard Graeme and his followers, having forced an entrance, made

hot and eager search, but without avail. One of them placed his dagger

at the queen's breast and demanded to know where the king was, and would

have killed her had not the young Graeme caught back his arm and said,

"She is a woman; we seek the king." At last, tired by their fruitless

search, they left the Hall, and then, unfortunately, the king requested

the women to draw him up from the vault again. This they attempted to

do, with ropes made from the sheets from the bed, but they were not

strong enough, and one of them, a sister of Catherine Douglas, was

pulled down into the vault below. Attracted by the noise of this

attempt, the conspirators returned, and the traitor chamberlain revealed

the secret of the hidden vaults. In a few moments all was over,--the

flooring was torn up, and, more like wild beasts than men, one after

another the king's enemies dropped into the vault, attacking him,

unarmed as he was, and killing him with many wounds. How the queen

ultimately revenged herself upon the king's assassins is matter of

history; but the story is chiefly interesting for its record of the

heroic devotion of Catherine Douglas, who was renamed Kate Barlas, from

the circumstances of her chivalry, by which name her descendants are

known to this day.

THE STRANGER.

_A ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE._

BY H. G. BELL.

Hodnet is a village in Shropshire. Like all other villages in

Shropshire, or anywhere else, it consists principally of one long

street, with a good number of detached houses scattered here and there

in its vicinity. The street is on a slight declivity, on the sunny side

of what in England they call a hill. It contains the shops of three

butchers, five grocers, two bakers, and one apothecary. On the right

hand, as you go south, is that very excellent inn, the Blue Boar; and on

the left, nearly opposite, is the public hall, in which all sorts of

meetings are held, and which is alternately converted into a

dancing-school, a theatre, a ball-room, an auction-room, an

exhibition-room, or any other kind of room that may be wanted. The

church is a little farther off, and the parsonage is, as usual, a white

house surrounded with trees, at one end of the village. Hodnet is,

moreover, the market-town of the shire, and stands in rather a populous

district; so that, though of small dimensions itself, it is the

rallying-place, on any extraordinary occasion, of a pretty numerous

population.

One evening in February, the mail from London stopped at the Blue Boar,

and a gentleman wrapped in a travelling cloak came out. The guard handed

him a small portmanteau, and the mail drove on. The stranger entered the

inn, was shown into a parlour, and desired that the landlord and a

bottle of wine should be sent to him. The order was speedily obeyed; the

wine was set upon the table, and Gilbert Cherryripe himself was the

person who set it there. Gilbert next proceeded to rouse the slumbering

fire, remarking, with a sort of comfortable look and tone, that it was a

cold, raw night. His guest assented with a nod. "You call this village

Hodnet, do you not?" said he inquiringly. "Yes, sir, this is the town of

Hodnet" (Mr. Cherryripe did not like the term village), "and a prettier

little place is not to be found in England." "So I have heard; and as

you are not upon any of the great roads, I believe you have the

reputation of being a primitive and unsophisticated race." "Privitive

and sofiscated, did you say, sir? Why, as to that I cannot exactly

speak; but, if there is no harm in it, I daresay we are. But you see,

sir, I am a vintner, and don't trouble my head much about these

matters." "So much the better," said the stranger, smiling. "You and I

shall become better friends; I may stay with you for some weeks, perhaps

months. In the meantime, get me something comfortable for supper, and

desire your wife to look after my bedroom."

Next day was Sunday. The bells of the village church had just finished

ringing when the stranger walked up the aisle and entered, as if at

random, a pew which happened to be vacant. Instantly every eye was

turned towards him, for a new face was too important an object in Hodnet

to be left unnoticed. "Who is he?" "When did he come?" "With whom does

he stay?" "How long will he be here?" "How old may he be?" "Do you think

he is handsome?" These and a thousand other questions flew about in

whispers from tongue to tongue, whilst the unconscious object of all

this interest cast his eyes calmly, and yet penetratingly, over the

congregation. Nor was it altogether to be wondered at that his

appearance had caused a sensation among the good people of Hodnet, for

he was not the kind of person whom one meets with every day. There was

something both in his face and figure that distinguished him from the

crowd. You could not look upon him once and then turn away with

indifference. When the service was over our hero walked out alone, and

shut himself up for the rest of the day in his parlour at the Blue

Boar. But speculation was busily at work, and at more than one tea-table

that evening in Hodnet conjectures were poured out with the tea and

swallowed with the toast.

A few days elapsed and the stranger was almost forgotten; for there was

to be a subscription assembly in Hodnet, which engrossed entirely the

minds of all. It was one of the most important events that had happened

for at least a century. At length the great, the important night

arrived. The three professional fiddlers of the village were elevated on

a table at one end of the hall, and everybody pronounced it the very

model of an orchestra. The candles were tastefully arranged and

regularly snuffed. The floor was admirably chalked by a travelling

sign-painter, engaged for the purpose; and the refreshments in an

adjoining room, consisting of negus, apples, oranges, cold roast-beef,

and biscuits, were under the immediate superintendence of our very

excellent friend, Mr. Gilbert Cherryripe. At nine o'clock, which was

considered a fashionable hour, the hall was nearly full, and the first

country dance was commenced by the eldest son and presumptive heir of

old Squire Thoroughbred, who conducted gracefully through its mazes the

chosen divinity of his heart, Miss Wilhelmina Bouncer, only daughter of

Tobias Bouncer, Esq., Justice of Peace in the county of Shropshire.

Enjoyment was at its height, and the three professional fiddlers had put

a spirit of life into all things, when suddenly one might perceive that

the merriment was for a moment checked, whilst a more than usual bustle

pervaded the room. The stranger had entered it; and there was something

so different in his looks and manner from those of any of the other male

creatures, that everybody surveyed him with renewed curiosity, which was

at first slightly tinctured with awe. "Who can he be?" was the question

that instantaneously started up like a crocus in many a throbbing bosom.

"He knows nobody, and nobody knows him; surely he will never think of

asking anybody to dance."

For a long time the stranger stood aloof from the dancers in a corner by

himself.

At length, something like a change seemed to come over the spirit of his

dreams. His eye fell on Emily Sommers, and appeared to rest where it

fell with no small degree of pleasure. No wonder. Emily was not what is

generally styled beautiful; but there was a sweetness, a modesty, a

gentleness about her, that charmed the more the longer it was observed.

She was the only child of a widowed mother. Her father had died many a

year ago in battle; and the pension of an officer's widow was all the

fortune he had left them. But nature had bestowed riches of a more

valuable kind than those which fortune had denied. I wish I could

describe Emily Sommers; but I shall not attempt it. She was one of those

whose virtues are hid from the blaze of the world, only to be the more

appreciated by those who can understand them.

It was to Emily Sommers that the stranger first spoke. He walked right

across the room and asked her to dance with him. Emily had never seen

him before; but concluding that he had come there with some of her

friends, and little acquainted with the rules of etiquette, she

immediately, with a frank artlessness, smiled an acceptance of his

request.

It was the custom in Hodnet for the gentlemen to employ the morning of

the succeeding day in paying their respects to the ladies with whom they

had danced on the previous evening. Requesting permission to wait upon

his partner and her mother next day, it was without much difficulty

obtained. This was surely very imprudent in Mrs. Sommers, and everybody

said it was very imprudent. "What! admit as a visitor in her family a

person whom she had never seen in her life before, and who, for anything

she knew, might be a swindler or a Jew! There was never anything so

preposterous--a woman, too, of Mrs. Sommers's judgment and propriety! It

was very--very strange." But whether it was very strange or not, the

fact is that the stranger soon spent most of his time at Violet Cottage;

and what is perhaps no less wonderful, notwithstanding his apparent

intimacy, he remained nearly as much a stranger to its inmates as ever.

His name, they had ascertained, was Burleigh--Frederick Burleigh; that

he was probably upwards of eight-and-twenty, and that, if he had ever

belonged to any profession, it must have been that of arms. But farther

they knew not. Mrs. Sommers, however, who to a well-cultivated mind

added a considerable experience of the world, did not take long to

discover that their new friend was, in every sense of the word, a man

whose habits and manners entitled him to the name and rank of a

gentleman; and she thought, too, that she saw in him, after a short

intercourse, many of those nobler qualities which raise the individual

to a high and well-merited rank among his species. As for Emily, she

loved his society she scarcely knew why; yet, when she endeavoured to

discover the cause, she found it no difficult matter to convince herself

that there was something about him so infinitely superior to all the men

she had ever seen that she was only obeying the dictates of reason in

admiring and esteeming him.

Her admiration and esteem continued to increase in proportion as she

became better acquainted with him, and the sentiments seemed to be

mutual. He now spent his time almost continually in her society, and it

never hung heavy on their hands. The stranger was fond of music, and

Emily, besides being mistress of her instrument, possessed naturally a

fine voice. Neither did she sing and play unrewarded; Burleigh taught

her the most enchanting of all modern languages--the language of

Petrarch and Tasso; and being well versed in the use of the pencil,

showed her how to give to her landscapes a richer finish and a bolder

effect. Then they read together; and as they looked with a smile into

each other's countenances, the fascinating pages of fiction seemed to

acquire a tenfold interest. These were evenings of calm but deep

happiness--long, long to be remembered.

Spring flew rapidly on. March, with her winds and her clouds, passed

away; April, with her showers and her sunshine, lingered no longer; and

May came smiling up the blue sky, scattering her roses over the green

surface of creation. The stranger entered one evening, before sunset,

the little garden that surrounded Violet Cottage. Emily saw him from

the window and came out to meet him. She held in her hand an open

letter. "It is from my cousin Henry," said she. "His regiment has

returned from France, and he is to be with us to-morrow or next day. We

shall be so glad to see him! You have often heard us talk of Henry?--he

and I were playmates when we were children; and though it is a long time

since we parted, I am sure I should know him again among a hundred."

"Indeed!" said the stranger, almost starting; "you must have loved him

very much, and very constantly too." "Oh, yes! I loved him as a brother.

I am sure you will love him too," Emily added. "Everybody whom you love,

and who loves you, I also must love, Miss Sommers. But your cousin I

shall not at present see. I must leave Hodnet to-morrow." "To-morrow!

Leave Hodnet to-morrow!" Emily grew very pale, and leaned for support

upon a sun-dial, near which they were standing. "Can it be possible,

Miss Sommers--Emily--that it is for me you are thus grieved?" "It is so

sudden," said Emily, "so unexpected; are you never to return again--are

we never to see you more?" "Do you wish me to return, do you wish to see

me again, Emily?" he asked. "Oh! how can you ask it?" "Emily, I have

been known to you under a cloud of mystery, a solitary being, without a

friend or acquaintance in the world, an outcast apparently from

society--either sinned against or sinning--without fortune, without

pretensions; and with all these disadvantages to contend with, how can I

suppose that I am indebted to anything but your pity for the kindness

which you have shown to me?" "Pity! pity you! Oh, do not wrong yourself

thus. No! though you were a thousand times less worthy than I know you

are, I should not pity, I should----" She stopped confused, a deep blush

spread over her face, she burst into tears, and would have sunk to the

ground had not her lover caught her in his arms. "Think of me thus," he

whispered, "till we meet again, and we may both be happy." "Oh! I will

think of you thus for ever!" They had reached the door of the cottage.

"God bless you, Emily," said the stranger; "I dare not see Mrs.

Sommers; tell her of my departure, but tell her that ere autumn has

faded into winter I shall again be here. Farewell, dearest, farewell."

She felt upon her cheek a hot and hurried kiss; and when she ventured to

look round he was gone.

Henry arrived next day, but there was a gloom upon the spirits of both

mother and daughter, which it took some time to dispel. Mrs. Sommers

felt for Emily more than for herself. She now perceived that her child's

future happiness depended more upon the honour of the stranger than she

had hitherto been aware, and she trembled to think of the probability

that in the busy world he might soon forget the very existence of such a

place as Hodnet, or any of its inhabitants. Emily entertained better

hopes, but they were the result of the sanguine and unsuspicious

temperament of youth. Her cousin, meanwhile, exerted himself to the

utmost to render himself agreeable. He was a young, frank, handsome

soldier, who had leapt into the very middle of many a lady's heart--red

coat, sword, epaulette-belt, cocked hat, feathers, and all. But he was

not destined to leap into Emily's. She had enclosed it within too strong

a line of circumvallation. After a three months' siege, it was

impregnable. So Henry, who really loved his cousin, thinking it folly to

endanger his peace and waste his time any longer, called for his horse

one morning, shook Emily warmly by the hand, mounted, "and rode away."

Autumn came; the leaves grew red, brown, yellow, and purple; then

dropped from the high branches, and lay rustling in heaps upon the path

below. The last roses withered. The last lingering wain conveyed from

the fields their golden treasure. The days were bright, clear, calm, and

chill; the nights were full of stars and dew, and the dew, ere morning,

was changed into silver hoar-frost. The robin hopped across the garden

walks, and candles were set upon the table before the tea-urn. But the

stranger came not. Darker days and longer nights succeeded. Winter burst

upon the earth. But still the stranger came not. Then the lustre of

Emily's eye grew dim; but yet she smiled, and looked as if she would

have made herself believe that there was hope.

And so there was; for the mail once more stopped at the Blue Boar; a

gentleman wrapped in a travelling cloak once more came out of it; and

Mr. Gilbert Cherryripe once more poked the fire for him in his best

parlour. Burleigh had returned.

I shall not describe their meeting nor inquire whether Emily's eye was

long without its lustre. But there was still another trial to be made.

Would she marry him? "My family," said he, "is respectable, and as it is

not wealth we seek, I have an independence, at least equal, I should

hope, to our wishes; but anything else which you may think mysterious

about me I cannot unravel until you are indissolubly mine." It was a

point of no slight difficulty; Emily entrusted its decision entirely to

her mother. Her mother saw that the stranger was inflexible in his

purpose, and she saw also that her child's happiness was inextricably

linked with him. What could she do? It had been better perhaps they had

never known him; but knowing him, and thinking of him as they did, there

was but one alternative--the risk must be run.

It was run. They were married in Hodnet; and immediately after the

ceremony they stepped into a carriage and drove away, nobody knew

whither. It is enough for us to mention that towards twilight they came

in sight of a magnificent Gothic mansion, situated in the midst of

extensive and noble parks. Emily expressed her admiration of its

appearance; and her young husband, gazing on her with impassioned

delight, exclaimed, "Emily, it is yours! My mind was imbued with

erroneous impressions of women; I had been courted and deceived by them.

I believed that their affections were to be won only by flattering their

vanity or dazzling their ambition. I was resolved that unless I were

loved for myself I would never be loved at all. I travelled through the

country _incognito_; I came to Hodnet and saw you. I have tried you in

every way, and found you true. It was I, and not my fortune, that you

married; but both are yours. This is Burleigh House; your husband is

Frederick Augustus Burleigh, Earl of Exeter, and you, my Emily, are his

countess!"

LOVE WILL FIND A WAY.

_THE STORY OF WINNIFRED COUNTESS OF NITHSDALE._

Among the noblemen who, with many misgivings as to the wisdom of the

attempt, yet felt it their duty to take part in the rising on behalf of

the young Pretender, which took place in the year 1745, Lord Nithsdale

was unhappily numbered.

It is unnecessary to detail here the progress of this ill-advised

enterprise, which ended in general defeat and the capture of those

principally concerned. Lord Derwentwater, Lord Nithsdale, and other

noblemen, were immediately brought to trial, and condemned, without hope

of mercy, to suffer the death of traitors.

Lady Nithsdale, when the first terrible news of her husband's

apprehension reached her, was at Terreagles, their seat, near Traquhair

in Peebleshire, and hearing that he much desired the consolation of

seeing her, she resolved at once to set out for London. It was winter,

and at that period the roads during this season were often almost

impassable. She succeeded, however, through great difficulties, in

reaching Newcastle, and from thence went to York by the stage; but there

the increased severity of the weather and the depth of the snow would

not admit of the stage proceeding farther--even the mail could not be

forwarded. But Lady Nithsdale was on an errand from which no risks might

deter her. She therefore pursued her way, though the snow was generally

above the horse's girths, and, in the end, reached London in safety,

and, supported both in health and spirits by firm resolution, she

sustained no ill consequences from her perilous journey.

Arrived there, however, she learnt, to her dismay, that she was not to

be allowed to see her husband, unless she would consent to be imprisoned

with him in the Tower--a plan she could not consent to, as it would

prevent her acting on his behalf by soliciting the assistance and

intercession of friends, and, above all, incapacitate her from carrying

out the plan of escape she had already formed, should the worst she

apprehended come true. In spite of the refusal of the Government,

however, by bribing the guard she obtained frequent interviews with her

husband up to the day on which the prisoners were condemned; after

which, for the last week, their families were allowed free admittance to

take a last leave of them.

From the first moment of her arrival in London she laboured in her

husband's cause, making application to all persons in authority,

wherever there was the most distant chance of assistance; but from those

in power she only received assurances that her cause was hopeless, and

that for certain reasons her husband was especially reserved for

vengeance.

Lord Nithsdale, for her sake more than his own, was anxious that a

petition should be presented to the king in his behalf; trusting, by

this means, to excite for her his sympathy and indulgence. It was well

known that the king was especially incensed against Lord Nithsdale, so

that he is said to have forbidden that any petition should be presented

for him, or personal address made to him; but the countess, in obedience

to her lord's wish, resolved to make the attempt, and accordingly

repaired to court. In the narrative she wrote to her sister of her

husband's escape, she has given the following account of the

interview--very little creditable to the feelings of George I., either

as a king or a gentleman:--

"So the first day that I heard the king was to go to the drawing-room, I

dressed myself in black, as if I had been in mourning, and sent for Mrs.

Morgan (the same who accompanied me to the Tower); because, as I did

not know his Majesty personally, I might have mistaken some other person

for him. She stayed by me, and told me when he was coming. I had another

lady with me (Lady Nairn), and we remained in a room between the king's

apartments and the drawing-room, so that he was obliged to go through

it; and as there were three windows in it, we sat in the middle one,

that I might have time enough to meet him before he could pass. I threw

myself at his feet, and told him, in French, that I was the unfortunate

Countess of Nithsdale, that he might not pretend to be ignorant of my

person. But, perceiving that he wanted to go off without receiving my

petition, I caught hold of the skirt of his coat, that he might stop and

hear me. He endeavoured to escape out of my hands; but I kept such

strong hold, that he dragged me on my knees from the middle of the room

to the very door of the drawing-room. At last one of the blue ribbons

who attended his Majesty took me round the waist, while another wrested

the coat out of my hands. The petition, which I had endeavoured to

thrust into his pocket, fell down in the scuffle, and I almost fainted

away through grief and disappointment. One of the gentlemen in waiting

picked up the petition; and as I knew that it ought to have been given

to the lord of the bedchamber, who was then in waiting, I wrote to him,

and entreated him to do me the favour to read the petition which I had

had the honour to present to his Majesty. Fortunately for me it happened

to be my Lord Dorset, with whom Mrs. Morgan was very intimate.

Accordingly she went into the drawing-room and delivered him the letter,

which he received very graciously. He could not read it then, as he was

at cards with the Prince; but as soon as ever the game was over he read

it, and behaved (as I afterwards learned) with the warmest zeal for my

interest, and was seconded by the Duke of Montrose, who had seen me in

the ante-chamber and wanted to speak to me. But I made him a sign not to

come near me, lest his acquaintance might thwart my designs. They read

over the petition several times, but without any success; but it became

the topic of their conversation the rest of the evening, and the

harshness with which I had been treated soon spread abroad--not much to

the honour of the king."

This painful scene happened on Monday, February 13th, and seems to have

produced no result, unless it may be supposed to have hastened the fate

of the prisoners; for, on the following Friday, it was decided in

council that the sentence against them should be carried into effect.

In the meanwhile Lady Derwentwater and other ladies of high rank were

strenuous in their efforts to avert the execution of the sentence. They

succeeded in obtaining an interview with the king, though without any

favourable issue. They also attended at both Houses of Parliament to

present petitions to the members as they went in. These exertions had a

decided influence on the feelings of both Houses. In the Commons a

motion to petition the king in favour of the delinquents was lost by

only seven votes, and among the Lords a still stronger personal feeling

and interest was excited; but all proved unavailing, and Lady Nithsdale,

after joining with the other ladies in this ineffectual attendance, at

length found that all her hope and dependence must rest on her

long-formed scheme of bringing about her husband's escape. She had less

than twenty-four hours for arranging it in all its details, and for

persuading the accomplices who would be necessary to her to enter into

so hazardous a project. In these she seems to have been peculiarly

fortunate; but the history of this remarkable escape can only be given

in her own words, taken from the interesting and spirited narrative she

wrote of it:--

"As the motion had passed generally (that the petitions should be read

in the Lords, which had only been carried after a warm debate) I thought

I would draw some advantage in favour of my design. Accordingly I

immediately left the House of Lords and hastened to the Tower; where,

affecting an air of joy and satisfaction, I told all the guards I passed

that I came to bring joyful tidings to the prisoner. I desired them to

lay aside their fears, for the petition had passed the House in their

favour. I then gave them some money to drink to the lords and his

Majesty, though it was but trifling; for I thought that if I were too

liberal on the occasion they might suspect my designs, and that giving

them something would gain their good humour and services for the next

day, which was the eve of the execution. The next morning I could not go

to the Tower, having so many things on my hands to put in readiness; but

in the evening, when all was ready, I sent for Mrs. Mills, with whom I

lodged, and acquainted her with my design of attempting my lord's

escape, as there was no prospect of his being pardoned, and this was the

last night before the execution. I told her that I had everything in

readiness, and that I trusted she would not refuse to accompany me, that

my lord might pass for her. I pressed her to come immediately, as we had

no time to lose. At the same time I sent for Mrs. Morgan, then usually

known by the name of Hilton, to whose acquaintance my dear Evans (her

maid) had introduced me--which I looked upon as a very singular

happiness. I immediately communicated my resolution to her. She was of a

very tall and slender make; so I begged her to put under her own

riding-hood one that I had prepared for Mrs. Mills, as she was to lend

hers to my lord, that in coming out he might be taken for her. Mrs.

Mills was not only of the same height, but nearly the same size as my

lord. When we were in the coach I never ceased talking, that they might

have no leisure to reflect. Their surprise and astonishment when I first

opened my design to them had made them consent, without ever thinking of

the consequences.

"On our arrival at the Tower, the first I introduced was Mrs. Morgan;

for I was only allowed to take in one at a time. She brought in the

clothes that were to serve Mrs. Mills when she left her own behind her.

When Mrs. Morgan had taken off what she had brought for my purpose, I

conducted her back to the staircase; and, in going, I begged her to send

me in my maid to dress me; that I was afraid of being too late to

present my last petition that night if she did not come immediately. I

despatched her safe, and went partly downstairs to meet Mrs. Mills, who

had the precaution to hold her handkerchief to her face--as was very

natural for a woman to do when she was going to bid her last farewell to

a friend on the eve of his execution. I had, indeed, desired her to do

it, that my lord might go out in the same manner. Her eyebrows were

rather inclined to be sandy, and my lord's were dark and very thick;

however, I had prepared some paint of the colour of hers to disguise his

with. I also bought an artificial head-dress of the same coloured hair

as hers; and I painted his face with white and his cheeks with rouge, to

hide his long beard, which he had not had time to shave. All this

provision I had before left in the Tower.

"The poor guards, whom my liberality the day before had endeared me to,

let me go quietly with my company, and were not so strictly on the watch

as they usually had been; and the more so as they were persuaded from

what I had told them the day before that the prisoners would obtain

their pardon. I made Mrs. Mills take off her own hood and put on that

which I had brought her. I then took her by the hand and led her out of

my lord's chamber; and in passing through the next room, in which there

were several people, with all the concern imaginable I said, 'My dear

Mrs. Catherine, go in all haste and send me my waiting-maid; she

certainly cannot reflect how late it is; she forgets that I am to

present a petition to-night, and if I let slip this opportunity I am

undone; for to-morrow will be too late. Hasten her as much as possible;

for I shall be on thorns till she comes.' Everybody in the room, who

were chiefly the guards' wives and daughters, seemed to compassionate me

exceedingly; and the sentinel officiously opened the door.

"When I had seen her out I returned back to my lord and finished

dressing him. I had taken care that Mrs. Mills did not go out crying, as

she came in, that my lord might the better pass for the lady who came in

crying and afflicted; and the more so because he had the same dress she

wore. When I had almost finished dressing my lord in all my petticoats

excepting one, I perceived that it was growing dark, and was afraid that

the light of the candles might betray us, so I resolved to set off. I

went out, leading him by the hand; and he held his handkerchief to his

eyes. I spoke to him in the most piteous and afflicted tone of voice,

bewailing bitterly the negligence of Evans, who had ruined me by her

delay. Then said I, 'My dear Mrs. Betty, for the love of God run quickly

and bring her with you. You know my lodging, and, if ever you made

despatch in your life, do it at present. I am distracted with this

disappointment.' The guards opened the doors, and I went downstairs with

him, still conjuring to make all possible despatch. As soon as he had

cleared the door, I made him walk before me, for fear the sentinel

should take notice of his walk; but I still continued to press him to

make all the despatch he possibly could. At the bottom of the stairs I

met my dear Evans, into whose hands I confided him.[3]

[Footnote 3: Thus one more person left Lord Nithsdale's prison

than had entered it. Three had gone in, and four came out. But

so long as women only passed, and these two at a time, the

guards probably were not particularly watchful. This inevitable

difficulty in the plan of the escape makes Lady Nithsdale's

admirable self-possession of manner in conducting it the more

conspicuous. Any failure on her part would have awakened the

suspicions of the bystanders.]

"I had before engaged Mr. Mills to be in readiness before the Tower to

conduct him to some place of safety, in case he succeeded. He looked

upon the affair as so very improbable to succeed, that his astonishment,

when he saw us, threw him into such consternation that he was almost out

of himself; which Evans perceiving, with the greatest presence of mind,

without telling him (Lord Nithsdale) anything, lest he should mistrust

them, conducted him to some of her own friends on whom she could rely,

and so secured him; without which we should have been undone. When she

had conducted him, and left him with them, she returned to find Mr.

Mills, who by this time had recovered himself from his astonishment.

They went home together, and having found a place of security, they

conducted him to it.

"In the meanwhile, as I had pretended to have sent the young lady on a

message, I was obliged to return upstairs and go back to my lord's room

in the same feigned anxiety of being too late; so that everybody seemed

sincerely to sympathise with my distress. When I was in the room, I

talked to him as if he had been really present; and answered my own

questions in my lord's voice as nearly as I could imitate it. I walked

up and down as if we were conversing together, till I thought they had

time enough thoroughly to clear themselves of the guards. I then thought

proper to make off also. I opened the door, and stood half in it, that

those in the outward chamber might hear what I said; but held it so

close that they could not look in. I bid my lord a formal farewell for

that night; and added, that something more than usual must have happened

to make Evans negligent on this important occasion, who had always been

so punctual in the smallest trifle; that I saw no other remedy than to

go in person; that if the Tower were still open when I finished my

business I would return that night; but that he might be assured that I

would be with him as early in the morning as I could gain admittance to

the Tower; and I flattered myself I should bring favourable news. Then,

before I shut the door, I pulled the string through the latch, so that

it could only be opened on the inside. I then shut it with some degree

of force, that I might be sure of its being well shut. I said to the

servant as I passed by, who was ignorant of the whole transaction, that

he need not carry candles in to his master till my lord sent for him, as

he desired to finish some prayers first. I went downstairs and called a

coach, as there were several on the stand. I drove home to my lodgings,

where poor Mr. Mackenzie had been waiting to carry the petition, in case

my attempt failed. I told him there was no need of any petition, as my

lord was safe out of the Tower and out of the hands of his enemies, but

that I did not know where he was.

"I then desired one of the servants to call a chair, and I went to the

Duchess of Montrose, who had always borne a part in my distresses. She

came to me; and as my heart was in an ecstasy of joy, I expressed it in

my countenance as she entered the room. I ran up to her in the transport

of my joy. She appeared to be exceedingly shocked and frighted, and has

since confessed to me that she apprehended my trouble had thrown me out

of myself till I communicated my happiness to her. She then advised me

to retire to some place of security, for that the king was highly

displeased, and even enraged, at the petition I had presented to him,

and had complained of it severely, and then said she would go to court

and see how the news of my lord's escape was received. When the news was

brought to the king, he flew into an excess of passion, and said he was

betrayed; for it could not have been done without some confederacy. He

instantly despatched two persons to the Tower to see that the other

prisoners were secure, lest they should follow the example. Some threw

the blame upon one, some upon another. The duchess was the only one at

court who knew it.

"When I left the duchess, I went to a house which Evans had found out

for me, and where she promised to acquaint me where my lord was. She got

thither some few minutes after me, and took me to the house of a poor

woman, directly opposite to the guard-house, where my lord was. She had

but one small room, up one pair of stairs, and a very small bed in it.

We threw ourselves upon the bed, that we might not be heard walking up

and down. She left us a bottle of wine and some bread, and Mrs. Mills

brought us some more in her pocket next day. We subsisted on this

provision from Thursday till Saturday night, when Mrs. Mills came and

conducted my lord to the Venetian ambassador's. We did not communicate

the affair to his excellency; but one of his servants concealed him in

his own room till Wednesday, on which day the ambassador's coach-and-six

was to go down to Dover to meet his brother. My lord put on a livery,

and went down in the retinue, without the least suspicion, to Dover,

where M. Michel (the ambassador's servant) hired a small vessel and

immediately set sail for Calais. The passage was so remarkably short

that the captain threw out this reflection, that the wind could not

have served better if his passengers had been flying for their lives,

little thinking it to be really the case.

"For my part," continues Lady Nithsdale, "I absconded to the house of a

very honest man in Drury Lane, where I remained till I was assured of my

lord's safe arrival on the Continent. I then wrote to the Duchess of

Buccleugh and entreated her to procure leave for me to go with safety

about my business. So far from granting my request, they were resolved

to secure me, if possible. After several debates it was decided that if

I remained concealed no further search should be made, but that if I

appeared either in England or Scotland I should be secured."

On first hearing of her husband's apprehension, she had thought it

prudent to conceal many important family papers and other valuables, and

having no person at hand with whom they could be safely entrusted, had

hid them underground, in a place known only to the gardener, in whom she

could entirely confide. This had proved a happy precaution, for, after

her departure, the house had been searched, and, as she expressed it,

"God only knows what might have transpired from those papers." In

addition to the danger of their being discovered, there was the imminent

risk of their being destroyed by damp, so that no time must be lost in

regaining them before too late. She therefore determined on another

journey to the north, and, for greater secrecy, on horseback, though

this mode of travelling, which was new to her, was extremely fatiguing.

She, however, with her maid, Mrs. Evans, and a servant that could be

depended on, set out from London, and reached Traquhair in safety and

without any one being aware of her intentions. Here she ventured to rest

two days, in the society of her sister-in-law and Lord Traquhair,

feeling security in the conviction that, as the lord-lieutenant of the

county was an old friend of her husband's, he would not allow any search

to be made after her without first giving her warning to abscond. From

thence she proceeded to Terreagles, whither it was supposed she came

with the permission of Government; and to keep up that opinion, she

invited her neighbours to visit her. That same night she dug up the

papers from their hiding-place, where happily they had sustained no

injury, and sent them at once, by safe hands, to Traquhair. This was

accomplished just in time, for the magistrates of Dumfries began to

entertain suspicions of her right to be there, and desired to see her

leave from Government. On hearing this, "I expressed," she says, "my

surprise that they had been so backward in paying their respects; 'but,'

said I, 'better late than never: be sure to tell them that they shall be

welcome whenever they choose to come.' This was after dinner; but I lost

no time to put everything in readiness, but with all possible secrecy;

and the next morning, before daybreak, I set off again for London, with

the same attendants, and, as before, I put up at the smallest inns, and

arrived safe once more."

George I. could not forgive Lady Nithsdale for the heroic part she had

acted: he refused, in her case, the allowance or dower which was granted

to the wives of the other lords. "A lady informed me," she says, "that

the king was extremely incensed at the news; that he had issued orders

to have me arrested, adding that I did whatever I pleased, despite of

all his designs, and that I had given him more trouble than any woman in

all Europe. For which reason I kept myself as closely concealed as

possible, till the heat of these rumours had abated. In the meanwhile, I

took the opinion of a very famous lawyer, who was a man of the strictest

probity: he advised me to go off as soon as they had ceased searching

for me. I followed his advice, and, in about a fortnight after, I

escaped without any accident whatever."

She met her husband and children at Paris, whither they had come from

Bruges to meet her. They soon afterwards joined the Pretender's court at

Avignon; but, finding the mode of life there little to their taste,

shortly after returned to Italy, where they lived in great privacy.

Lord Nithsdale lived, after his escape, nearly thirty years, and died at

Rome in 1744. His wife survived him five years: she had the comfort of

having provided a competency for her son by her hazardous journey to

Terreagles, though his title and principal estates had been confiscated

by his father's attainder. He married Lady Catherine Stewart, daughter

of the Earl and Countess of Traquhair. Her daughter, the Lady Anne

Maxwell, became the wife of Lord Bellew.

[Transcriber's Note: The following typographical errors present in the

original print edition have been corrected. No other alterations have

been made to the original text.

In "Margot: The Martyr", "the burning larva" has been changed to "the

burning lava".

In "Nadine: The Princess", a colon was added following "The silence was

broken by Maura, saying"; a quotation mark was added following "the

subject is never mentioned to her"; and a quotation mark has been

deleted preceding "O---- was a fearful place".

In "My Year at School", a quotation mark was added before "The history

prize has been awarded".

In "The Silver Star", "her exhibiton work" has been changed to "her

exhibition work".

In "Uncle Tone", a comma has been added after "he shut himself off from

all society"; and "discourtsey" has been changed to "discourtesy".

In "The Missing Letter", a quotation mark was added after "he shall have

it now."

In "The Magic Carpet", a quotation mark has been added before "The

book?" and before "The Magic Cabinet!"; and "half-cirle" has been

changed to "half-circle".

In "Only Tim", "A little latter" has been changed to "A little later";

and "pepples" has been changed to "pebbles".

In "The Colonel's Boy", "mischevously" has been changed to

"mischievously".

In "The Trevern Treasure", "no opportunity for Sybil Trevern ro return"

has been changed to "no opportunity for Sybil Trevern to return";

"frequently rasults in misadventure" has been changed to "frequently

results in misadventure"; and "the disaster of Sherifmuir" has been

changed to "the disaster of Sherrifmuir".

In "Dora", "Miss Dora "ll be marryin'" has been changed to "Miss Dora

'll be marryin'"; and "'e ses. solemn" has been changed to "'e ses

solemn".

In "Little Peace", "Beneath this ortrait" has been changed to "Beneath

this portrait"; "Blessed are the pacemakers" has been changed to

"Blessed are the peacemakers"; and a quotation mark has been added

before "Because old Gaffer Cressidge".

In "The Story of Wassili and Daria", "dressed in their most brillant

manner" has been changed to "dressed in their most brilliant manner".

In "The Pedlar's Pack", a quotation mark has been removed in front of

"If I didn't think".

In "The Unbidden Guest", quotation marks have been added in front of

"Dad believes what he's agoing to tell you" and in front of "I was

a-looking at mother"; "'Nothin', says I" has been changed to "'Nothin','

says I"; and "'Nothin,' says she" has been changed to "'Nothin',' says

she".

In "A Strange Visitor", a quotation mark has been added in front of "I

must apologise for intruding upon you".

In "Billjim", "as similiar as possible" has been changed to "as similar

as possible"; and "See bathed his temples" has been changed to "She

bathed his temples".

In "The Tiny Folk of Langaffer", a quotation mark has been added in

front of "'Silver sword of Ravenspur.' That means something."

In "The Kingfisher", "their voices lease my ears" has been changed to

"their voices please my ears".

In "Caspar the Cobbler", "masonary and stone-carving" has been changed

to "masonry and stone-carving"; "his workship in the old garret" has

been changed to "his workshop in the old garret"; and a quotation mark

has been added after "exhibits his good breeding."

In "The Story of Grizel Cochrane", "In futherance of this plan" has been

changed to "In furtherance of this plan".

In "The Stranger", a quotation mark has been added before "Can it be

possible".]