all that bliss-the change of it all into strange, I but leave her alone to herself in her affec sudden, shameful, and everlasting misery, tionate innocence, the smile that always lies smote me till I swooned, and was delivered on her face when she is asleep would remain up to a trance in which the rueful reality was there-only brighter-all the time her eyes mixed up with fantasms more horrible than are awake; but I dash it away by my unhal man's mind can suffer out of the hell of sleep! lowed harshness, and people looking on her "Wretched coward that I was to outlive in her trouble, wonder to think how sad can that night! But my mind was weak from be the countenance even of a little child. O great loss of blood-and the blow so stunned God of mercy! what if she were to die!" me that I had not strength of resolution to "She will not die-she will live," said the die. I might have torn off the bandages-pitying pastor-" and many happy years-my for nobody watched me-and my wounds were son-are yet in store even for you-sorely as thought mortal. But the love of life had not you have been tried; for it is not in nature welled out with all those vital streams; and that your wretchedness can endure for ever. as I began to recover, another passion took She is in herself all-sufficient for a father's possession of me-and I vowed that there happiness. You prayed just now that the God should be atonement and revenge. I was not of Mercy would spare her life-and has he not obscure. My dishonour was known through spared it? Tender flower as she seems, yet the whole army. Not a tent-not a hut-in how full of Life! Let not then your gratitude which my name was not bandied about-a to Heaven be barren in your heart; but let it jest in the mouths of profligate poltroons-produce there resignation-if need be, contripronounced with pity by the compassionate tion-and, above all, forgiveness." brave. I had commanded my men with pride. "Yes! I had a hope to live for-mangled as No need had I ever had to be ashamed when I looked on our colours; but no wretch led out to execution for desertion or cowardice ever shrunk from the sun, and from the sight of human faces arrayed around him, with more shame and horror than did I when, on my way to a transport, I came suddenly on my own corps, marching to music as if they were taking up a position in the line of battle -as they had often done with me at their head-all sternly silent before an approaching storm of fire. What brought them there? To do me honour! Me, smeared with infamy, and ashamed to lift my eyes from the mire. Honour had been the idol I worshippedalas! too, too passionately far-and now I lay in my litter like a slave sold to stripes-and heard as if a legion of demons were mocking me and with loud and long huzzas; and then a confused murmur of blessings on our noble commander, so they called me-me, despicable in my own esteem-scorned-insulted-forsaken-me, who could not bind to mine the bosom that for years had touched it--a wretch so poor in power over a woman's heart, that no sooner had I left her to her own thoughts than she felt that she had never loved me, and, opening her fair breast to a new-born bliss, sacrificed me without remorse-nor could bear to think of me any more as her husband --not even for sake of that child whom I knew she loved-for no hypocrite was she there; and oh! lost creature though she was-even now I wonder over that unaccountable desertion-and much she must have suffered from the image of that small bed, beside which she used to sit for hours, perfectly happy from the sight of that face which I too so often blessed in her hearing, because it was so like her own! Where is my child? Have I frightened her away into the wood by my unfatherly looks! She too will come to hate meoh! see yonder her face and her figure like a fairy's, gliding through among the broom! Sorrow has no business with her-nor she with sorrow. Yet even her how often have I made ween! All the unhappiness she has ever known has all come from me; and would

I was in body, and racked in mind-a hope that was a faith-and bitter-sweet it was in imagined foretaste of fruition-the hope and the faith of revenge. They said he would not aim at my life. But what was that to me who thirsted for his blood? Was he to escape death, because he dared not wound bone, or flesh, or muscle of mine, seeing that the assassin had already stabbed my soul? Satisfaction! I tell you that I was for revenge. Not that his blood could wipe out the stain with which my name was imbrued, but let it be mixed with the mould; and he who invaded my marriage-bed-and hallowed was it by every generous passion that ever breathed upon woman's breast-let him fall down in convulsions, and vomit out his heart's blood, at once in expiation of his guilt, and in retribution dealt out to him by the hand of him whom he had degraded in the eyes of the whole world beneath the condition even of a felon, and delivered over in my misery to contempt and scorn. I found him out;-there he was before me-in all that beauty by women so beloved-graceful as Apollo; and with a haughty air, as if proud of an achievement that adorned his name, he saluted me-her husband-on the field,—and let the wind play with his raven tresses-his curled love-locks-and then presented himself to my aim in an attitude a statuary would have admired. I shot him through the heart."

The good old man heard the dreadful words with a shudder-yet they had come to his ears not unexpectedly, for the speaker's aspect had gradually been growing black with wrath, long before he ended in an avowal of murder. Nor, on ceasing his wild words and distracted demeanour, did it seem that his heart was touched with any remorse. His eyes retained their savage glare-his teeth were clenched-and he feasted on his crime.

"Nothing but a full faith in Divine Revelation," solemnly said his aged friend, "can subdue the evil passions of our nature, or enable conscience itself to see and repent of sin Your wrongs were indeed great-but without a change wrought in all your spirit, alas! my

son! you cannot hope to see the kingdom of | dead of cold and hunger: she whom I cherished heaven."

in all luxury-whose delicate frame seemed to "Who dares to condemn the deed? He de- bring round itself all the purest air and sweet. served death-and whence was doom to come est sunshine-she may have expired in the but from me the Avenger? I took his life- very mire-and her body been huddled into but once I saved it. I bore him from the some hole called a pauper's grave. And I battlements of a fort stormed in vain-after have suffered all this to happen her! Or have we had all been blown up by the springing of I suffered her to become one of the miserable a mine; and from bayonets that had drunk multitude who support hated and hateful life my blood as well as his-and his widowed by prostitution? Black was her crime; yet mother blessed me as the saviour of her son. I hardly did she deserve to be one of that howltold my wife to receive him as a brother-and ing crew-she whose voice was once so sweet, for my sake to feel towards him a sister's love. her eyes so pure, and her soul so innocentWho shall speak of temptation-or frailty-or for up to the hour I parted with her weeping, infatuation to me? Let the fools hold their no evil thought had ever been hers; then peace. His wounds became dearer to her why, ye eternal Heavens! why fell she from abandoned heart than mine had ever been; that sphere where she shone like a star? Let yet had her cheek lain many a night on the that mystery that shrouds my mind in darkness scars that seamed this breast-for I was not be lightened-let me see into its heart-and backward in battle, and our place was in the know but the meaning of her guilt-and then van. I was no coward, that she who loved may I be able to forgive it; but for five years, heroism in him should have dishonoured her day and night, it has troubled and confounded husband. True, he was younger by some me-and from blind and baffled wrath with an years than me-and God had given him per- iniquity that remains like a pitch-black night nicious beauty-and she was young, too-oh! through which I cannot grope my way, no the brightest of all mortal creatures the day refuge can I find-and nothing is left me but she became my bride-nor less bright with to tear my hair out by handfuls-as, like a that baby at her bosom-a matron in girlhood's madman, I have done-to curse her by name resplendent spring! Is youth a plea for wicked- in the solitary glooms, and to call down upon ness? And was I old? I, who in spite of all her the curse of God. O wicked-most wicked! I have suffered, feel the vital blood yet boiling Yet He who judges the hearts of his creatures, as to a furnace; but cut off for ever by her knows that I have a thousand and a thousand crime from fame and glory-and from a soldier times forgiven her, but that a chasm lay bein his proud career, covered with honour in tween us, from which, the moment that I came the eyes of all my countrymen, changed in an to its brink, a voice drove me back-I know hour into an outlawed and nameless slave. not whether of a good or evil spirit-and bade My name has been borne by a race of heroes me leave her to her fate. But she must be -the blood in my veins has flowed down a dead-and needs not now my tears. O friend! long line of illustrious ancestors-and here judge me not too sternly-from this my conam I now a hidden, disguised hypocrite-fession; for all my wild words have imperdwelling among peasants—and afraid-ay, afraid, because ashamed, to lift my eyes freely from the ground even among the solitudes of the mountains, lest some wandering stranger should recognise me, and see the brand of ignominy her hand and his-accursed both burnt in upon my brow. She forsook this bosom-but tell me if it was in disgust with these my scars?"

And as he bared it, distractedly, that noble chest was seen indeed disfigured with many a gash-on which a wife might well have rested her head with gratitude not less devout because of a lofty pride mingling with life-deep affection. But the burst of passion was gone by-and, covering his face with his hands, he wept like a child.

fectly expressed to you but parts of my miserable being-and if I could lay it all before you, you would pity me perhaps as much as condemn-for my worst passions only have now found utterance-all my better feelings will not return nor abide for words-even I myself have forgotten them; but your pitying face seems to say, that they will be remembered at the Throne of Mercy. I forgive her." And with these words he fell down on his knees, and prayed too for pardon to his own sins. The old man encouraged him not to despairit needed but a motion of his hand to bring the child from her couch in the cover, and Lucy was folded to her father's heart. The forgiveness was felt to be holy in that embrace.

The day had brightened up into more perfect "Oh! cruel-cruel was her conduct to me; beauty, and showers were sporting with sunyet what has mine been to her-for so many shine on the blue air of Spring. The sky years! I could not tear her image from my showed something like a rainbow-and the memory-not an hour has it ceased to haunt Lake, in some parts quite still, and in some me; since I came among these mountains, her breezy, contained at once shadowy fragments ghost is for ever at my side. I have striven to of wood and rock, and waves that would have drive it away with curses, but still there is the murmured round the prow of pleasure-boat phantom. Sometimes-beautiful as on our suddenly hoisting a sail. And such a very marriage day-all in purest white-adorned boat appeared round a promontory that stretchwith flowers-it wreathes its arms around my ed no great way into the water, and formed neck-and offers its mouth to my kisses-and with a crescent of low meadow-land a bay that then all at once is changed into a leering was the first to feel the wind coming down wretch, retaining a likeness of my bride-then Glencoin. The boatman was rowing heedinto a corpse. And perhaps she is dead-lessly along, when a sudden squall struck the

sail, and in an instant the skiff was upset and went down. No shrieks were heard-and the boatman swam ashore; but a figure was seen struggling where the sail disappeared-and starting from his knees, he who knew not fear plunged into the Lake, and after desperate exertions brought the drowned creature to the side a female meanly attired-seemingly a stranger-and so attenuated that it was plain she must have been in a dying state, and had she not thus perished, would have had but few days to live. The hair was gray-but the face though withered was not old-and, as she lay on the greensward, the features were beautiful as well as calm in the sunshine.

He stood over her awhile-as if struck motionless-and then kneeling beside the body, tissed its lips and eyes—and said only, "It is Lucy!"

"Not thus could I have kissed thy lipsLucy-had they been red with life. White are they and white must they long have been! No pollution on them-nor on that poor bosom now. Contrite tears had long since washed out thy sin. A feeble hand traced these lines -and in them an humble heart said nothing but God's truth. Child-behold your mother. Art thou afraid to touch the dead?"

"No-father-I am not afraid to kiss her lips-as you did now. Sometimes, when you thought me asleep, I have heard you praying for my mother."

"Oh! child! cease-cease-or my heart will burst."

People began to gather about the body-but awe kept them aloof; and as for removing it to a house, none who saw it but knew such Icare would have been vain, for doubt there could be none that there lay death. So the groups remained for a while at a distanceeven the old pastor went a good many paces apart; and under the shadow of that tree the father and child composed her limbs, and closed her eyes, and continued to sit beside her, as still as if they had been watching over one asleep.

The old man was close by-and so was that child. They too knelt-and the passion of the mourner held him dumb, with his face close to the face of death-ghastly its glare beside the sleep that knows no waking, and is forsaken by all dreams. He opened the bosom-wasted to the bone-in the idle thought that she might yet breathe and a paper dropt out into his hand, which he read aloud to himself-uncon- That death was seen by all to be a strange scious that any one was near. "I am fast calamity to him who had lived long among dying and desire to die at your feet. Per-them-had adopted many of their customshaps you will spurn me—it is right you should; and was even as one of themselves—so it but you will see how sorrow has killed the seemed-in the familiar intercourse of man wicked wretch who was once your wife. I with man. Some dim notion that this was the have lived in humble servitude for five years, dead body of his wife was entertained by many, and have suffered great hardships. I think I they knew not why; and their clergyman felt am a penitent and have been told by reli- that then there needed to be neither concealgious persons that I may hope for pardon from ment nor avowal of the truth. So in solemn Heaven. Oh! that you would forgive me too! sympathy they approached the body and its and let me have one look at our Lucy. I will watchers; a bier had been prepared: and linger about the Field of Flowers-perhaps walking at the head, as if it had been a funeral, you will come there, and see me lie down and the Father of little Lucy, holding her hand, die on the very spot where we passed a sum- silently directed the procession towards his mer day the week of our marriage." own house-out of the FIELD OF FLOWERS.

COTTAGES.

the housekeeper sits like an overgrown spider in her own sanctum-the butler bargains for his dim apartment-and the four maids must have their front-area window. In short, from cellarage to garret, all is complete, and Number Forty-two is really a splendid mansion.

HAVE you any intention, dear reader, of build- | governess her retreat-and the tutor his dening a house in the country? If you have, pray, for your own sake and ours, let it not be a Cottage. We presume that you are obliged to live, one-half of the year at least, in a town. Then why change altogether the character of your domicile and your establishment? You are an inhabitant of Edinburgh, and have a Now, dear reader, far be it from us to queshouse in the Circus, or Heriot Row, or Aber- tion the propriety or prudence of such an escromby Place, or Queen Street. The said tablishment. Your house was not built for house has five or six stories, and is such a nothing-it was no easy thing to get the paintpalace as one might expect in the City of Pa- ers out-the furnishing thereof was no triflelaces. Your drawing-rooms can, at a pinch, the feu-duty is really unreasonable-and taxes hold some ten score of modern Athenians are taxes still, notwithstanding the principles your dining-room might feast one-half of the of free trade, and the universal prosperity of contributors to Blackwood's Magazine-your the country. Servants are wasteful, and their "placens uxor" has her boudoir-your eldest wages absurd-and the whole style of living, daughter, now verging on womanhood, her with long-necked bottles, most extravagant. music-room-your boys their own studio-the But still we do not object to your establish

ment-far from it, we admire it much; nor is there a single house in town where we make ourselves more agreeable to a late hour, or that we leave with a greater quantity of wine of a good quality under our girdle. Few things would give us more temporary uneasiness, than to hear of any embarrassment in your money concerns. We are not people to forget good fare, we assure you; and long and far may all shapes of sorrow keep aloof from the hospitable board, whether illuminated by gas, oil, or mutton.

down the whole Cottage would have been difficult-at least to build it up again would have been so; so we had to submit. Custom, they say, is second nature, but not when a dead rat is in the house. No, none can ever become accustomed to that; yet good springs out of evil-for the live rats could not endure it, and emigrated to a friend's house, about a mile off, who has never had a sound night's rest from that day. We have not revisited our Cottage for several years; but time does wonders, and we were lately told by a person of some veracity, that the smell was then nearly gonebut our informant is a gentleman of blunted olfactory nerves, having been engaged from seventeen to seventy in a soap-work.

But what we were going to say is this-that the head of such a house ought not to live, when ruralizing, in a Cottage. He ought to be consistent. Nothing so beautiful as consistency. What then is so absurd as to cram Smoke too! More especially that mysteri yourself, your wife, your numerous progeny, ous and infernal sort, called back-smoke! The and your scarcely less numerous menials, into old proverb, "No smoke without fire," is a a concern called a Cottage? The ordinary base lie. We have seen smoke without fire heat of a baker's oven is very few degrees in every room in a most delightful Cottage we above that of a brown study, during the month inhabited during the dog-days. The moment of July, in a substantial, low-roofed Cottage. you rushed for refuge even into a closet, you Then the smell of the kitchen! How it aggra- were blinded and stifled; nor shall we ever for vates the sultry closeness! A strange, com- get our horror on being within an ace of smothpounded, inexplicable smell of animal, vegeta-eration in the cellar. At last, we groped our ble, and mineral matter. It is at the worst way into the kitchen. Neither cook nor jack during the latter part of the forenoon, when was visible. We heard, indeed, a whirring every thing has been got into preparation for and revolving noise-and then suddenly Grizie cookery. There is then nothing savoury about swearing through the mist. Yet all this while the smell it is dull, dead-almost catacom- people were admiring our cottage from a disbish. A small back-kitchen has it in its power tance, and especially this self-same accursed to destroy the sweetness of any Cottage. Add back-smoke, some portions of which had made a scullery, and the three are omnipotent. Of an excursion up the chimneys, and was waverthe eternal clashing of pots, pans, plates, trench- ing away in a spiral form to the sky, in a style ers, and general crockery, we now say no- captivating to Mr. Price on the Picturesque. thing; indeed, the sound somewhat relieves No doubt, there are many things very romanthe smell, and the ear comes occasionally in tic about a Cottage. Creepers, for example. to the aid of the nose. Such noises are wind- Why, sir, these creepers are the most misfalls; but not so the scolding of cook and but-chievous nuisance that can afflict a family. ler—at first low and tetchy, with pauses-then sharp, but still interrupted-by and by, loud and ready in reply-finally a discordant gabble of vulgar fury, like maniacs quarrelling in bedlam. Hear it you must-you and all the strangers. To explain it away is impossible; and your fear is, that Alecto, Tisiphone, or Megæra, will come flying into the parlour with a bloody_cleaver, dripping with the butler's brains. During the time of the quarrel the spit has been standing still, and a gigot of the five-year-old black-face burnt on one side to cinder. "To dinner with what appetite you may." It would be quite unpardonable to forget one especial smell which irretrievably ruined our happiness during a whole summer-the smell of a dead rat. The accursed vermin died somewhere in the Cottage; but whether beneath a floor, within lath and plaster, or in roof, baffled the conjectures of the most sagacious. The whole family used to walk about the Cottage for hours every day, snuffing on a travel of discovery; and we distinctly remember the face of one elderly maiden-lady at the moment she thought she had traced the source of the fumée to the wall behind a windowshutter. But even at the very same instant we ourselves had proclaimed it with open nostril from a press in an opposite corner. Terriers were procured-but the dog Billy imself would have been at fault. To pull

There is no occasion for mentioning names, but-devil take all parasites. Some of the rogues will actually grow a couple of inches upon you in one day's time; and when all other honest plants are asleep, the creepers are hard at it all night long, stretching out their toes and their fingers, and catching an inextricable hold of every wall they can reach, till, finally, you see them thrusting their impudent heads through the very slates. Then, like other low-bred creatures, they are covered with vermin. All manner of moths-the most grievous grubsslimy slugs-spiders spinning toils to ensnare the caterpillar-earwigs and slaters, that would raise the gorge of a country curate-woodlice-the slaver of gowk's-spittle-midgesjocks-with-the-many-legs in short, the whole plague of insects infest that-Virgin's bower. Open the lattice for half an hour, and you find yourself in an entomological museum. Then, there are no pins fixing down the specimens. All these beetles are alive, more especially the enormous blackguard crawling behind your ear. A moth plumps into your tumbler of cold negus, and goes whirling around in meal, till he makes absolute porritch. As you open your mouth in amazement, the large blue-bottle fly, having made his escape from the spiders, and seeing that not a moment is to be lost, precipitates himself head-foremost down your throat, and is felt, after a few ineffectual struggles,

:

We could tell many stories about bees, but that would be leading us away from the main argument. We remember reading in an American newspaper, some years ago, that the United States lost one of their most upright and erudite judges by bees, which stung him to death in a wood while he was going the Of all breeds of cattle we most admire the circuit. About a year afterwards, we read in Alderney. They are slim, delicate, wild-deer- the same newspaper, "We are afraid we have looking creatures, that give an air to a Cottage. lost another judge by bees;" and then followed But they are most capricious milkers. Of a somewhat affrightful description of the ascourse you make your own butter; that is sassination of another American Blackstone