ingly I bowed, but Jerry rose from his chair, and came forward with outstretched paw. "Good morrow-morning to you, sir, and 'deed and indeed it is mighty glad I am to see you, and wish you joy of so soon becoming my relation." Your relation, sir? I am not aware"-"Not relation,' returned Jerry, "not blood relation, but connection by marriage.""I am not going to be married," said I. "You not going to be married?" "Not that I know of," I replied. "Ah, be aisy, young gentleman," said Uncle Jerry; "sure I know all about it-ar'n't you going to marry my niece, Juliana, there?" A pretty dénouement this! My love oozed away like Bob Acres' valour—so I answered, "I rather think not, sir." "Not marry Juliana?" ejaculated the father. "Not marry my daughter?" yelled the mother. "Not marry my niece?" shouted the uncle; "but by Saint Peter you shall-didn't you propose for her last night?" "I won't marry her, that's flat; and I did not propose for her last night" -I roared. My blood was now up, and I had no notion of being taken by storm. "You shall marry her, and that before you quit this room, or the d-1 is not in Kilballyowen!" said Jerry, getting up, and locking the door. "If you don't, I'll have the law of you," said Mr. Hennessy. "If you don't, you are no gentleman," said Mrs. Hennessy. "If I do, call me fool," said I. "And I am unanimous," said a third person, from the inner door. "The deuce you are," said I to this new addition to our family circle-a smooth-faced, hypocritical-looking scoundrel, in black coat and black breeches, and grey pearl stockings -as he issued from the smaller apartment; -how he got there, I never knew. "Don't swear, young gentleman," said he. "I'll swear from this to Clare Castle, if I like," said I, "and no thanks to any one. Moreover by this and by that, and by everything else, I am not in the humour, and I'll marry no one -good, bad, or indifferent—this blessed day." Even this did not satisfy them. "Then you will marry her after Lent?" said the fellow in the pearl stockings. "Neither then nor now, upon my oath!" I answered. "You won't?" said old Hennessy. "You won't?" echoed the wife. "You won't?" dittoed Uncle Jerry. "That I won't, ladies and gentlemen," I rejoined; "I am in a hurry for Clare Castle; so good morning to you, and I wish you all the compliments of the season." "Go aisy with your hitching," said Jerry, "you will not be off in that way"-and he disappeared into the small room. The father sat down at a table, and began to write busily-the pearl-stocking'd gentleman twirled his thumbs, and stood between me and the door-Juliana sat snivelling and blowing her nose by the fire-I sprang to the door, but it was not only double-locked, but bolted. I contemplated a leap from the window, but the high iron railing of the area was crowned with spikes. I was debating about being impaled or not, when Jerry returned with a brace of pistols as long as my arm. Mr. Hennessy jumped from his writing-table, flourishing a piece of paper, and Mr. Pearl Stockings pulled a book out of his coat-pocket. "You have dishonoured me and my pedigree," said Jerry—“If you don't marry Juliana, I will blow you to atoms." "Stop, Jerry," said the attorney; "may-be the gentleman will sign this scrap of a document." I felt like the fat man in the play, who would not give a reason upon compulsion-I flatly refused. "I'd rather not dirty my hands with you," said the uncle; so just step in here to the closet. Father Twoney will couple you fair and aisyor just sign the bit of paper-If you don't I'll pop you to Jericho." "Ah! do now, Mr. O'Donoghue," implored the mother. I turned to the priest: "Sir, it seems that you then are a clergyman. Do you, I ask, think it consistent with your profession thus to sanction an act of violence?" "Batherashin,” interrupted Jerry. "Don't be putting your comehether on Father Twoney-he knows what he is about; and if he don't, I do. So you had better get buckled without any more blarney." The ruffian then deliberately threw up the pan of one of the pistols, and shook the powder together, in order that I might be convinced he was not jesting; then, slowly cocking it, laid it on the table, within his reach, and did the same with the other. "Give me one of those pistols, you scoundrel!" I exclaimed, "and I will fight you here--the priest will see fair play." Who would be the fool then, I wonder?" said this bully. “I am not such an omadhahaun as you suppose. If I was to shoot you where you stand, who would be the wiser-you spalpeen?" I seized the poker-Juliana rose and came towards me with extended arms. "Ah! now Mr. O'Donoghue! dearest O'Donoghue!-dearest Con, do prevent bloodshed-for my sake, prevent bloodshed-you know that I dote on you beyond anything. Can't you be led by my relations, who only want your own goodah! now, do!" "Ah! do now," said the mother. "Listen to me, now," cried I, "listen to me all of you for fear of a mistake: -you may murder me-my life is in your power and Father Twoney may give you absolution, if he likes; but, mark me now, Juliana Hennessy—I would not marry you if your eyes were diamonds, and your heels gold, and you were dressed in Roche's five-pound notes. If the priest was administering extreme unction to your father, and your mother kicking the bucket beside him-and your uncle Jerry with a razor at my throat-I would pitch myself head foremost into the hottest part of purgatory before I would sayJuliana Hennessy, you are my wife. Are you satisfied? Now, have you had an answer, Juliana Spring!" I do not imagine that they thought me so determined. The father seemed to hesitate; Juliana blubbered aloud; the priest half closed his eyes, and twirled his thumbs as if nothing unusual was going on; and Jerry, whose face became livid with rage, levelled the pistol at my head. I believe he would have murdered me on the spot, but for Mrs. Hennessy, who was calculating in her wrath. She clapped her hands with a wild howl, and shook them furiously in my face-"Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear! That I should live to hear my daughter called Juliana Spring!-I that gave her the best of learning-that had her taught singing by Mr. O'Sullivan, straight from Italy, and bought her a bran new forte-piano from Dublin -oh! to hear her called Juliana Spring!— Didn't I walk her up street and down street, and take lodgings opposite the Main Guard! And then, when we came here, wasn't she called the Pride of the Quay? Wouldn't Mr. Casey have married her, only you shot him in the knee? Wasn't that something? And you here late and early, getting the best of everything, and philandering with her everywhere-and now you won't marry her! I am ruined entirely with you-oh dear! oh dear!" A loud ring at the bell, and a rap at the hall door, astonished the group. Before Katty could be told not to admit any one, I heard Sergeant O'Gorman asking for me-he was no relation to O'Gorman Mahon, but a lad of the same kidney—a thorough-going Irishman-and loved a row better than his prayers. I shouted to the sergeant, "O'Gorman, they are going to murder me.' "Then by St. Patrick, your honour, we'll be in at the death," responded the sergeant. "Katty, shut to the door," roared Jerry. Katty was one of O'Gorman's sweethearts, who was not so nimble as she might have been; however, before the order could be obeyed, the sergeant had thrust his halbert between the door and the post, which effectually prevented it closing. I heard his whistle, and in a second the whole of his party had forced their way into the hall. "Break open the door, my lads," I hallooed "never mind consequences;" and immediately a charming sledge-hammer din was heard, as my men applied the but-ends of their firelocks to the wood. The attorney ran to the inner room, so did the priest,-and Jerry, dropping the pistols, followed them. Crash went the panels of the door, and in bounced my light-bobs. Mrs. Hennessy cried "fire" and "robbery;" Juliana Spring tried to faint; and I ran to the inner room just in time to catch Jerry by the heel, as he was jumping from the window. Mr. Hennessy and the priest, in their hurry to escape, had impeded each other, so that Uncle Jerry, who was last, had not time to flee before I clutched him. I dragged back the scoundrel, who was loudly bawling for mercy. "Is there a pump in the neighbourhood, my lads?" I asked. "Yes, sir, in the back yard," answered O'Gorman. "Then don't duck him."-"No, your honour!" they all said. I walked out of the house; but, strange to say, my orders were not obeyed; for Uncle Jerry was ducked within an inch of his life. At the corner of the street I waited for my party, who soon joined me. A few minutes afterwards I met Casey. "Casey," said I, “I am more than ever sorry for your misfortune; and Juliana Spring is at your service." "She may go to Old Nick, for all that I care," said Casey. "With all my heart, too," said I. "Small difference of opinion to bother our friendships, then!" rejoined the good-humoured boy; and to drown the memory of all connected with the calf-love, by which we both had been stultified, we took a hearty stirrupcup together, and off I set for Clare Castle. Fraser's Magazine. THE GRAVE. [Robert Blair, born at Edinburgh, about 1700; died at Athelstaneford, East Lothian, 4th February, 1746. He was the son of a clergyman, and was himself the minister of Athelstaneford, where he wrote his poem of The Grave, from which the following is an extract.] On this side, and on that, men see their friends Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers In the world's hale and undegen'rate days Could scarce have leisure for.-Fools that we are, Never to think of death and of ourselves At the same time: as if to learn to die Yet treads more soft than e'er did midnight thief, And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Christian. Or half its worth disclos'd. Strange medley here! Here are the wise, the generous, and the brave; BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. A SCOTTISH LEGEND OF 1666. It was in the yet Doric days of Scotland (comparing the present with the past) that Kenneth Bell, one of the lairds of the green holms of Kinvaid, having lost his lady by a sudden dispensation of Providence, remained for a long time wrapt up in the reveries of grief, and utterly inconsolable. The tide of affliction was at length fortuitously stemmed by the nourice bringing before him his helpless infant daughter-the very miniature of her departed mother, after whom she had been named. The looks of the innocent babe recalled the father's heart to a sense of the duties which life yet required of him; and little Bessy grew up in health and beauty, the apple of her father's eye. Nor was his fondness for her diminished, as year after year more fully developed those lineaments which at length ripened into a more matured likeness of her who was gone. She became, as it were, a part of the old man's being; she attended him in his garden walks; rode out with him on her palfrey on sunny mornings; and was as his shadow by the evening hearth. She doted on him with more than a daughter's fondness; and he, at length, seemed bound to earth by no tie save her existence. It was thus that Bessy Bell grew up to woman's stature; and, in the quiet of her father's hall, she was now in her eighteenth year, a picture of feminine loveliness. All around had heard of the beauty of the heiress of Kinvaid. The cottager who experienced her bounty drank to her health in his homely jug of nut-brown ale; and the squire, at wassail, toasted her in the golden wine-cup. The dreadful plague of 1666 now fell out, and rapidly spread its devastations over Scotland. Man stood aghast; the fountains of society were broken up; and day after day brought into rural seclusion some additional Hears not the voice of mirth.-The shrill-tongu'd shrew, proofs of its fearful ravages. Nought was Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding. heard around but the wailings of deprivation; and omens in the heavens and on the earth | lived for a while in rural seclusion, far from heralded miseries yet to come. Having been carried from Edinburgh (in whose ill-ventilated closes and wynds it had made terrible havoc) across the Firth of Forth, the northern counties were now thrown into alarm, and families broke up, forsaking the towns and villages to disperse themselves under the freer atmosphere of the country. Among others, the Laird of Kinvaid trembled for the safety of his beloved child, and the arrival of young Bruce, of Powfoulis Priory, afforded him an excellent opportunity of having his daughter escorted to Lynedoch, the residence of a warmly attached friend and relative. Under the protection of this gallant young squire, Bessy rode off on the following morning, and, the day being delightful, the young pair, happy in themselves, forgot, in the beauty of nature, the miseries that encompassed them. Besides being a youth of handsome appearance and engaging manners, young Bruce had seen a good deal of the world, having for several years served as a member of the bodyguard of the French king. He had returned from Paris only a few months before, and yet wore the cap and plume peculiar to the distinguished corps to which he still belonged. The heart of poor Bessy Bell was as sensitive as it was innocent and unsophisticated; and, as her protector made his proud steed fret and curvet by her side, she thought to herself, as they rode along, that he was like one of the knights concerning whom she had read in romance, and, unknown to herself, there awoke in her bosom a feeling to which it had hitherto been a stranger. Her reception at Lynedoch was most cordial; nor the less so, perhaps, on the part of the young lady of that mansion, because her attendant was Bruce, the secret but accepted suitor for the hand of Mary Gray. Ah! had this mystery been once revealed to Bessy Bell, what a world of misery it would have saved her! From the plague had our travellers been flying; but the demon of desolation was here before them, and the smoke was ceasing to ascend from many a cottage hearth. It became necessary that the household of Lynedoch should be immediately dispersed. Bruce and Lynedoch remained in the vicinity of the dwelling-house, and a bower of turf and moss was reared for the young ladies on the pastoral banks of the Brauchie-burn, a tributary of the Almond. It was there that Bessy Bell and Mary Gray the bustle and parade of gay life, verifying in some measure what ancient poetry hath feigned of the golden age. Bruce was a daily visitant at the bower by the Brauchie-burn: he wandered with them through the green' solitudes; and, under the summer sun and a blue sky, they threaded ofttimes together the mazes of "many a bosky bourne and bushy dell." They chased the fantastic squirrel from bough to bough, and scared the thieving little weasel from the linnet's nest. Under a great tree they would seat themselves, as Bruce read aloud some story of chivalry, romance, or superstition, or soothed the listless hours of the afternoon with the delightful tones of the shepherd's pipe. More happy were they than the story-telling group, each in turn a queen, who, in like manner, flying from the pestilence which afflicted Florence, shut themselves up in its delightful gardens, relating those hundred tales of love which have continued to delight posterity in the glowing pages of Boccaccio. Under whatever circumstances it is placed, human nature will be human nature still. When the young and the beautiful meet together freely and unreservedly, the cold restraints of custom and formality must be thrown aside; friendship kindles into a warmer feeling, and love is generated. Could it be otherwise with our ramblers in their green solitude? Between Mary Gray and young Bruce a mutual and understood attachment had long subsisted; indeed they only waited his coming of age to be united in the bonds of wedlock; but the circumstance, for particular reasons, was cautiously concealed within their own bosoms. Even to Bessy Bell, her dearest and most intimate companion, Mary had not revealed it. To disguise his real feelings, Bruce was outwardly less marked in his attention to his betrothed than to her friend; and, in her susceptibility and innocent confidence, Bessy Bell too readily mistook his kind assiduities for marks of affection and proofs of love. new spirit began to pervade her whole being, almost unknown to herself; she looked on the scenes around her with other eyes; and life changed in the hues it had previously borne to the gaze of her imagination. In the absence of Bruce she became melancholy and abstracted. He seemed to her the being who had been born to render her blessed; and futurity appeared, without his presence, like the melancholy gloom of a November morning. A The physiological doctrine of temperaments we leave to its difficulties; although we confess, that in Bessy Bell and Mary Gray something spoke in the way of illustration. The countenance of Bessy was one of light and sunshine. Her eyes were blue, her hair flaxen, her complexion florid. She might have sat for a picture of Aurora. Everything about her spoke of "the innocent brightness of the new-born day." Mary Gray was in many things the reverse of this, although perhaps equally beautiful. Her features were more regular; she was taller, even more elegant in figure; and had in her almost colourless cheeks, lofty pale brow, and raven ringlets, a majesty which nature had denied to her unconscious rival. The one was all buoyancy and smiles; the other subdued passion, deep feeling, and quiet reflection. extinguishing every hope, when she was shown a beautiful necklace of precious stones, which Bruce had presented to his betrothed on the morning of his bidding adieu to the bower of the Brauchie-burn. As it were by magie, a change came over the spirit of Bessy Bell. She dried her tears, hung on the neck of her friend, endeavoured to console her in her separation from him who loved her, and bore up with a heroism seemingly almost incompatible with the gentle softness of her nature. She clasped the chain round the neck of Mary, and, kneeling, implored Heaven speedily to restore the giver to her arms. Fatal had been that gift! It had been purchased by Bruce from a certain Adonijah Baber, a well-known Jewish merchant of Perth, who had amassed considerable riches by traffic. Taking advantage of the distracted state of the times, this man had allowed his thirst after lucre to overcome his better principles, and lead him into lawless dealings with the wretches who went about abstracting movables from infected or deserted mansions. As a punishment for his rapacity, death was thus in a short time brought to his own household, and he himself perished amid the unavailing wealth which sin had accumulated. Bruce was a person of the finest sense of honour; and, finding that he had unconsciously and unintentionally made an impression on the bosom-friend of his betrothed, became instantly aware that it behoved him to take some step to dispel the unfortunate illusion. Fortunately the time was speedily approaching, which called him to return, for a season, to his military post in France; but the idea of parting from Mary Gray had become doubly painful to his feelings, from the consideration of the circumstances under which he was obliged to leave her. The ravages of death were extending instead of abating; and the general elements themselves seemed to have become tainted with the unwholesomeness. There was an unrefreshing languor in the air; the sky wore a coppery appearance, and over the face of the sun was drawn as it were a veil of blood. Imagination might no doubt magnify these things; but victims were falling around on every side; and no Aaron, as in the days of hoary antiquity, now stood between the living and the dead, to bid the plague betrothed. stayed. With a noble resolution Bruce took his departure, and sorrow, like a cloud, brooded over the bower by the Brauchie-burn. Mary sat in a quiet, melancholy abstraction; but ever and anon the tears dropped down the checks of Bessy Bell, as her "softer soul in woe dissolved aloud." Love is lynx-eyed, and Mary saw too well what was passing in the mind of her friend; but, with a kind consideration, she allowed the lapse of a few days to moderate the turbulence of her feelings ere she ventured to impart the cruel truth. looked-for, so unexpected was the disclosure, that for a while she harboured a spirit of unbelief; but conviction at once flashed over her, So un | Fatal had been that gift!-In a very little while Mary sickened; and her symptoms were those of the fearful malady afflicting the nation. Bessy Bell was fully aware of the danger; but, with a heroic self-devotion, she became the nurse of her friend; and, when all others kept aloof, administered, though vainly, to her wants. Her noble and generous mind was impressed with the conviction that she owed some reparation for the unintentional wound which she might have inflicted on the feelings of Mary, in having appeared to become her rival in the affections of her be As an almost necessary consequence, she was herself seized with the malady of death. The evening heard them singing hymns together-midnight listened to the ravings of delirium-the morning sun shone into the bower of death, where all was still! The tragedy was consummated ere yet Bruce had set sail for France; but the news did not reach him for a considerable time, the communication between the two countries being interrupted. His immediate impulse was to volunteer into the service of the German emperor, by whom he was attached to a squadron sent to assist Sobieski of Poland against the Turks. He never returned; and was supposed to have fallen shortly afterwards, |