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LONDON SATURDAY JOURNAL.

CONDUCTED BY JOHN TIMBS, THIRTEEN YEARS EDITOR OF "THE MIRROR," AND "LITERARY WORLD."

No. 78. NEW SERIES.]

SATURDAY, JUNE 25, 1842.

THE EDITOR TO HIS READERS.

[PRICE TWOPENCE.

HAVING completed a Volume of "THE LONDON SATURDAY JOURNAL," I request your attention to a brief retrospect of the means by which I have sought to carry out the improvements in this Miscellany, proposed at the commencement of my undertaking.

In the Publisher's announcement of the change in the Editorship of THE JOURNAL, in December last, it was promised that especial attention should be paid to the advancement in the tone of its Literature; and, a month later, in a Prospectus freely circulated among "friends fast sworn," I wrote as follows:

"I rejoice to add that I have already received so many lines of fair encouragement,' and such assurances of the interest taken in my new enterprise, as to leave no doubt of its success. I promise, in return, all that untiring industry, on my part and that of my collaborateurs, can secure for your intellectual gratification. Originality and freshness of subject shall be the staple of 'THE LONDON SATURDAY JOURNAL;' integrity the cardinal point of its criticism; and the improvement of the heart as well as the head the characteristic of every column.

January 29, 1842."

In attempting to fulfil these promises, I have been essentially aided by several accomplished hands; and for such assistance I have to tender my best acknowledgments. Their Contributions, in prose and verse, occupy more than one-fourth of the volume of THE JOURNAL, just completed; and many of these papers are distinguished by such talent and feeling, as would grace the pages of any literary miscellany in the country.

Of my own Editorial papers, extending to nearly half the volume, it becomes me to speak with more hesitation. I may, however, be permitted to refer to the main design of these labours, and to leave their execution to public opinion. In the Illustrated Articles, I have aimed at "originality and freshness of subject;" though, in seeking novelty and amusement, I trust that I have not overlooked utility and information; and, it may be observed, that I have rather avoided than followed any taste for false wit or flimsy humour; however these extrinsic qualities might, for a time, " set the table on a roar," and prove attractive to a section of readers. On the other hand, I have striven to encourage healthy tones of thought and mental gratification, though not at the expense of morality, or the charge of dulness.

I can conscientiously refer to the Reviews of New Books in THE JOURNAL, for their honesty; and, although it is, by no means, impracticable to turn a bad book to good account by an exposure of its errors, in no instance has this plan been invidiously followed. Unattached to any clique, or party, and possessing fewer literary intimacies than the majority of persons who have moved in the world of letters for nearly two-thirds of their life-time, which has been my lot—the Reader may rest assured that, in my critical columns, neither the good opinions are the fruits of favouritism, nor the objections the result of invidiousness-but the praise and censure are alike the offspring of conviction. I have reason to believe these exertions have been amply appreciated; and, to give still more effect to this department of THE JOURNAL, as well as to raise its general literary character, I have, after much consideration, resolved, in future, to hold the Illustrations as incidental or secondary to the work; or, in other words, to discontinue the usual frontispiece Engraving, and occupy its place with more sterling matter. It is certain that Pictorial embellishment is not, in every case, indispensable to success; and, in this instance, I am persuaded that the time and cost requisite to produce an Engraving for each Number, may be more advantageously employed in multiplying its literary attractions; and the change will, I trust, prove to the interest of every Reader.

It is gratifying to find that from the testimonials, public and private, of the conduct of THE JOURNAL during the past six months, I am justified in the anticipation of its continued prosperity; although I am not disposed to imitate the full-blown vanity of printing any of these praises in polyglot. Approbation of the past will, however, I trust, be no mean security for the satisfactory performance of the future. J. T.

June 23, 1842,"

In reply to several kindly communications respecting the res repetita of a Journal lately under my control, it should be understood that my connexion with the Miscellany in question, ceased in July last.

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Warton Woodhouse, every door and window having long
ago shaken off the guardianship of lock and bolt, and ren-
dered ingress and egress easy at all seasons.
It had long
been the shelter of the houseless beggar, the stray donkey,
the homeless dog, and the play-ground of the village chil-
dren in wet weather, by turns, stable, cow-house, and
pig-sty, until at last it was thought too insecure even for
purposes like these. Just before it had all but become
"The raven's bleak abode,
The apartment of the toad,"

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it was taken possession of by the well-known John Grapple, who was celebrated far and wide under the cognomen of Jack Grab. Jack was a collector of bones, rags, bits of iron, rope, broken glass, broken spoons,-in a word, of almost every thing that every body threw away. Sometimes he would pick up a little waste tin, and, gathering the wool from the gorse bushes and hedges, manufacture a curious kind of unnatural-looking lamb, such as would have fetched any money had it been possible to produce "its living like." With a basket full of such things as those he would visit the neighbouring villages, singing,

"If I'd as much money as I could tell,

I wouldn't cry out, young lambs to sell-
Young lambs to sell."

Many a mother has missed her pewter spoons during these peregrinations of Jack; for the children would cry for the lambs, and if their parents had neither bottle nor broken spoon to give, how easy was it for him to break | them! nay, rumour said that he was not particular as to cramming them into his bag whole, and would receive any kind of linen, for old rags, which the youngsters brought him, without inquiring whether it had been filched from the drawer or off the hedge. Jack, be it known, was an arrant miser, a regular old "skin-flint" and "scrat;" one who would punish his belly a long summer's day to save a halfpenny. How he had ever managed to reconcile his conscience to pay Betty Coles sixpence a week for a room and the use of her back-yard, to keep his stores in, was to me a matter of mystery, so long as that old house had been without an occupant. However, he did it; although the old woman declared that it was like parting with six of his teeth, and he had seldom either bit or sup on rent day. What visions of wealth floated before the eyes of the old miser on the evening that he took up his residence in the old house! "Ah," said he to the old gardener, who had lent him a barrow to remove his stock, "Ah, Mr. Anderton, if I had but removed here two years ago, I should have saved-let me see," and he began to count his fingers, to sum up the number of sixpences; but the idea of such a loss was too horrible to contemplate, and he turned his thoughts to other matters. "Lots of room here, Mr. Anderton, for my different stores ;-white rags here, this side for coarse rags. I've lost many shillings through want of room to separate them; being forced to let white and coloured go all together, when there's almost a farthing difference in the pound. Then, you see, I can also lay my beat iron aside from my cast. No, no; they'll not get the best at the worst price any more, Mr. Anderton, as they have done. Then the saving of sixpence a-week, ‚—a deal of money, you know, in the course of a year. I have heard of men making fortunes who only began with sixpence. Rome was not built in a day, you know. Take care of the pennies, and the shillings will take care of themselves, is a good saying; and a better is, that a penny saved is a penny earned."

Jack did not act like the former possessors of the old mansion, who left access easy to every urchin that could lift up a hand to push the doors down or the windows open; but, on the contrary, he repaired the old lock, found a key among his old iron that would fit it, and having plenty of old nails, he soon made the window-shutters secure; adding, as a reason for all this caution, that he dared not trust his bone-heap without lock and key where there were so many dogs. Betty Coles, however, assigned another reason, and said, that beneath the patches of divers colours which formed or covered his nether garment, there slumbered a few good spade-ace guineas; that with her own eyes she had peeped through the key-hole, and seen him stitch many a one under a certain red patch in his said unmentionables.

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The witty Rabelais somewhere observes, that his creditors are his flatterers, claw-backs, saluters, and givers of goodmorrows. Now, Grab had none of these; and according to the above-named authority, he might call in vain for aid or succour froin either fire or murder, as no one would assist him,-nobody being concerned in his burning, his drowning, or his death; he spent next to nothing, and owed nobody a farthing. How he continued to live was a mystery, as he never even bought a loaf from the baker unless it was sun-dried, ropy, or mouldy, and could be pur chased for half the usual price. If he bought a halfpenny worth of old milk, he would add to it a quart of water, nay, even catch the drops that ran down the side of his porringer, when he drank, on the point of his knife, and lick them off; wetting his finger, also, and picking up every crumb of mouldy bread which adhered thereto. He has been known to wage war with a mastiff for the halfpicked bone, and to eat such garbage as the veriest beggar would have turned his nose up at. Grab had, however, his hobby; he had long passed the bits of cabbage leaves, potato parings, and other things which he could not well eat himself, with regret, and often thought that so much waste as he witnessed in his daily perambulations would keep a pig well. He had now plenty of room in the ruined house, no rent to pay, and he formed the resolution of keeping a pig, and laying out a sum of ready money in its purchase; -such a sum as he had never before in all his life expended

at once.

Before entering upon his new speculation, he spent much time in ascertaining the price of pork and bacon; reckoned to a farthing what he should gain by selling it out and out to the butcher, or curing it himself, and disposing of a ham here and a flitch there; nor did he ever dream of putting a morsel to his own lips. Great was the astonishment of butcher Crane at these inquiries; at first he thought that Grab intended to buy, but he soon discovered that the old miser had no such intention. Day after day, and week after week, did he scour the country in search of a cheap pig; hoarding up, in the mean time, rubbish enough to feed it for a month. Sometimes he would pause before the butcher's shop, and gazing on the huge sides of pork, picture to himself the time when he should have such to offer for sale, and inwardly praying that at that period it might fetch a great price. He wandered as far as the next town every market day, and was once or twice within a shilling of making a bargain; and one morning he saw a farmer purchase a whole litter of pigs saving one, and, to the amazement of Grab, it was the largest that he left behind. Grab took a close survey of the grunter before he ventured to ask the price, and also looked narrowly into the face of the man, for he had before been threatened with divers kickings for bidding so much below the sum named. "What may you be asking for that little thin pig?" inquired he at length.

"Do you want to buy ?" said the pig-jobber, in his turn eyeing Jack from head to foot, as if he doubted whether a thing of shreds and patches" possessed a sum of money sufficient for the purchase.

such 66

"That all depends upon what you may ask," answered the ever-cautious Grab. "I have had some thoughts of keeping one, you see, when I could meet with it cheap; but I'm in no hurry-no hurry; only I thought, as it was the last, you might ask very reasonable for it. What is the very lowest you mean to take now-at a word ?"

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"Well, then, at a word, twelve shillings," replied the pig-jobber; "and if you understand pigs at all, you know that's very cheap."

Grab looked at the man, then at the pig, then at the ground; he saw a rusty nail, but did not stoop to pick it up; he could afford to miss a nail for once, for he knew

that the pig was very cheap; he had been asked eighteen | He had no more fat upon him than a dead stick; he "lay shillings for one much less, and had even bid fifteen. to the earth," to use a sporting phrase, like a grey hound; "Will he eat well?" was the next inquiry. for, like Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner," he was— 'Long, lank, and brown,

"Eat!" exclaimed the countryman. "Ay, any manner of thing; there isn't a pig in the county with a better appetite. Bless you! when he was among the other pigs he used to root all the tit-bits into one corner of the trough, and have them to himself,-he's a deep pig."

"Is his health good ?" inquired Grab; for I reckon pigs are somewhat like Christians, liable to a few complaints now and then."

"He's as hard as nails," answered the pig-jobber, "and never had an hour's illness since he was born; when all the rest were ill, he was up and eating; and he cut his teeth like winking."

"Well, then," said Grab, drawing in his breath heavily, and speaking in a faint tone, "I'll give you ten shillings for him ;" and he thrust his hand into his pocket, that he might feel the smooth silver once again before he parted with it for ever.

"Too little," said the man. "I'll stand a tankard of ale and bread and cheese, but I'll take no less." But he did take less, after much bantering; for he sold his pig for eleven shillings, and gave the old miser threepence for his share of the refreshment, as he excused himself from going to the alehouse for want of time. It is impossible to sketch Grab as he looked when paying the money into the broad brown open hand of the pig-jobber. First he pulled out three shillings, and laid them down in the form | of a triangle, muttering, "It's a deal of money to part with at once." Then he drew out two more, growling deeper than ever; the next time he put his hand in his pocket, he fished up but one shilling, saying, "That makes six, and the pig may die;-a deal of money,--a great risk. I almost wish

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"Hark you," said the countryman, closing his hand on the six shillings, "if you don't pull out the other five a little quicker, I shall walk off with both the pig and the money;-so pay the remainder down, then grumble as much as you like after;-a bargain's a bargain." The threat had the desired effect; at one desperate plunge Grab dragged up three more shillings,-two more rapid dives into his pocket drew forth the remainder,—and heaving a deep sigh, he paid for the pig.

Long and many were the contests between Grab and his pig before they reached Warton Woodhouse, nor did he get clear of the market-town without encountering many perils, for the pig seemed willing to go any road but the right one; and instead of "larding the lean earth,” like Falstaff, he showed no more marks of fatigue than a piece of parchment which has been blown across the road, He soon managed to slip the string, and bolting from Grab, shot between the legs of a little lawyer, on whose silk stockings he left the marks which he himself had gathered in a gutter. But the dire disaster was running against a table which was covered with bottles of ginger beer, and carrying away a leg of it, which had but that morning been indifferently spliced with very slender string. The proprietor of this rickety establishment, without once pausing to listen to the hiss and fizz, and foam and tumult, among his broken bottles, set off full speed after Grab and the grunter; deeming, no doubt, that the old adage of one bird in the hand being worth two in the bush, might be applied to his case of the pig. Away shot the porker at more than a pig's speed, and luckily he took the very road which Grab had in vain attempted to drive him, plainly showing that "although roads were as plentiful as blackberries, he would take none of them upon compulsion;" never did a pig shoot off at such speed! he would have won the St. Leger from all the tribe of pork.

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As is the ribb'd sea-sand."

After the grunter went Grab, and after both the gingerbeer man, who, being fat and asthmatical, groaned again like a railway engine when it is stopped, and shouting (a word at a time,) "Stop-that-pig-stop―tl -that-manthey've-ru-in-ed-me-my-beer-pig-man- tablebottles-dam-a-ges." Butcher boys and dogs joined in the chase at full cry; never had such yelling and shouting been heard at that peaceful end of the town since the day of election, when, to show their independence, they pelted out both the candidates. Fortunately for Grab, a whole herd of swine chanced to be before him, their noses pointing twenty ways; and as his own pig shot through their bristling ranks without a pause, and turned up a narrow lane, he was soon lost to his pursuers, and shut out from all eyes except Grab's. It need not be wondered at, that out of so large a herd of swine, the ginger-beer man at last "caught the wrong pig by the ear;" for one more nimble than the rest shot out from his companions, and was followed by both men and dogs until he was captured, when the mistake was found out; but how rectified, our story sayeth not.

After many ins-and-outs, shoutings and kickings, and divers coaxings, and not a few turns at carrying him, Jack and his pig at length reached home in safety; one corner of the store and sleeping room was also allotted for his new companion, which he intended so kindly to nurse up for death: this corner was partitioned off with an old door or two, "just to keep him." as he himself remarked, "from getting at the bones." We must now suppose the old miser to have lost three or four days in making a trough for his pig, to have had sundry twitchings of the shoulder in carrying "swill" or dish-washings, and that he had also so far recovered the shock of laying out so much money as to have had at least two hours' sleep on the previous night; that he had also resumed his old trade of collecting bones and rags, and now carried an extra bag, to pick up whatever he could for his pig. Further, we must suppose that, to his sorrow, Grab had discovered that the pig possessed a terrible appetite; that what food he had calculated upon lasting a month, was all consumed the first week; that even a month had rolled over, and the pig had not increased a hair's breadth in either length or width; that if he grew at all, it was less.

Poor Grab! in vain did he clamber into the sty every morning, and with a piece of string measure his pig round the middle; he made a knot, but still the measurement was the same to day as yesterday; if he ever swelled a finger's-breadth after having had a pail of slops, the next day he shrunk back to his old familiar size. In vain did Grab labour day after day, rising with the sun, and stooping to pick up food for his ravenous pig until the day declined; bagful after bagful, and pailful after pailful, did he empty into the hungry monster's trough; but all was of no use; the pig had long ago done growing. Had he dined with an alderman daily he would never have grown fatter; he looked just as sharp on the back and gaunt in the belly, and long on the legs, as he did on the very day when he overthrew the ginger-heer, and outstripped both men and dogs. Food was of no avail-the more he ate, the more he wanted; there he was, always alike, (excepting just at the few moments spent in eating,) his trough empty, and himself rearing up beside the sty, and squealing like a very pig. Grab might as well have made a hole through the floor, and by pouring pig's meat into the cellar, have expected the old house to have grown fat. Poor Grab!

he was almost at his wit's end; he wandered about day after day in quest of nothing but food for his pig; he no longer stooped to pick up old iron or old rags, he was only on the look-out for something to appease the squealing of his ravenous porker; for he declared that he had no peace at home, neither day nor night, unless his pig was either asleep or eating; nay, that he was often compelled to arise in the night, and pour a pail of water into his trough to keep him quiet. But, oh! worst of all, nobody pitied poor old Grab: if they inquired how his pig got on, and he told them all his misery, they only laughed at him; even the very boys would shout out after him," There goes Grab with a bagful of dirt for his pig;" or "Jacky, how's pork selling?" At length, however, the old man learned to bear their taunts, and went his way without either answering their questions or resenting their abuse; he had but one friend who appeared to sympathise with him, and that was the old farrier.

"Well," said Jacky, as he met the old horse-doctor one morning, "it's all of no use, Mr. Carter; I stuff him and cram him till every bone in my body aches with carrying food for him. I've even pinched my own belly to fill his, and it's all of no use; he grows no more than a pin. The other day, while I was out, he broke loose and ate up all my little bones, which had taken me days and days in gathering, and I do believe that if my old iron hadn't been rather hard for his jaws, he'd have eaten it all up, rump and stump. What to do with him, I don't know; I'm a ruined man, Mr. Carter; eleven shillings, all at once, did I lay out; but oh! what a waste of money! Then the days that I have spent in bringing home food for him! He eats as much at a meal as would serve me for a month." "Very strange!" muttered the old farrier. "Perhaps he's got the worms: I'd advise you to give him a little worm-cake."

"Worm-cakes!" echoed Grab; "they must be as large as half-peck loaves for him to feel them. Bless you, sir, you've no notion of what he can swallow."

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"Humph!" muttered the butcher; "never kill dying pigs, Mr. Grab; never deal in keg-meg; you must go to Hawking Georgy;" and down went the window. Now, Hawking Georgy, be it known, was notorious for selling bad meat; was never known to purchase anything unless it was very cheap, and paid but little regard to the quality; he kept no shop, but went hawking his trash from cottage to cottage, and selling it just for what he could get. То him poor Grab hastened, and after a long parley, (for Georgy would not kill the pig for less than two shillings,) the old miser promised him a shilling and the offals, and away they went together. When they reached the old man's dwelling they found the pig dead, "dead as a door nail," to use Georgy's expression; and although he confessed that he had occasionally dealt in queer cattle, he could not be persuaded to show his butcher craft on that occasion.

Poor Grab! such a serious loss-coupled with his “high expectation," broke his heart, and he never looked down after it, never stooped to pick up either rags or old iron again; there was a "lack lustre" in his eyes, and when he walked they always seemed fixed upon some object in the distance; every body saw that he was an altered man. About a month after the death of his pig, Jack Grab gave up the ghost, and as a wag observed, he caught his death from a surfeit of pig. He lies buried in the beautiful little churchyard of Warton Woodhouse, and there was some talk of erecting a headstone to his memory, but this has not yet been done. The following epitaph was, however, composed for the occasion, and whether it will be used or not, time alone must decide.

"Here lies Jack Grab, who picked up all things, nor nothing pass'd,

No marvel then that Death should pick him up at last:
No weighty grief destroyed him, he died all for a pig,
And would have lived, no doubt, had the object of his grief
been big.

We erect him this small head-stone, no larger could we build him,

The object of whose grief was-so very small it kill'd him. This epitaph was made by me, John Harding, StoneWarton Woodhouse."

"Well," resumed the other, "I would sell him." "Worse and worse," replied Grab: "but who will buy him, think you? I got our butcher to look at him the other day, and he says, Jacky,' says he, he's very old.'-mason, Think so?' says I. Very,' says he: I should say by his teeth, at least seven years old.'' How would he eat?'' says I. Like your old shoes,' says he; very tough indeed.' So you see there's no selling him."

"Well, then, I would kill him," said the farrier, "and make him into pork pies and sell them; people, you know, never lift up the crust to see what's inside."

"Won't do," answered Grab; "I'll lay no money out on flour for the crusts; beside, there would be no lard to make them eat short; no, I'll spend no more money upon him, Mr. Carter. I'm a ruined man."

"Well, well," said the old farrier, somewhat sharply, for he had almost exhausted both his reasons and his patience, "well, well, kill him—and eat him yourself."

"Over expensive," groaned Grab; "it would be like eating money."

A few days after his interview with the farrier a great change took place: the pig would not touch its food; Grab offered it a bread-crust, one that he had reserved for his own eating, but it scarcely took any notice-it gave a faint grunt, and then laid down its head again—the pig was dying. Away went the old miser to the butcher to get him to kill the pig instantly; it was night, and the butcher had gone to bed; Jack thundered at the door, and the old man poked out both head and night-cap, and inquired, in none of the mildest of tones, what was his business. "My pig is dying," said Grab, "and I want him killed."

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THE DESIRE OF FAME. (From a Volume of Poems by Sir E. L. Bulwer, just published.)

I DO confess that I have wish'd to give
My land the gift of no ignoble name,
And in that holier life have sought to live,
Whose air, the Hope of Fame.

Do I lament that I have seen the bays,

Denied my own, not worthier brows above?
Foes quick to scoff, and friends afraid to praise-
More active Hate than Love?

Do I lament that roseate youth has flown,
In the hard labour grudg'd its niggard meed,
And cull from far and juster lands alone
Few flowers from many a seed?

No!-for whoever, with an earnest soul,
Strives for some end from this low world afar,
Still upward travels, though he miss the goal,
And strays-but towards a star!
Better than Fame is still the wish for Fame,
The constant training for a glorious strife:-
The Athlete, nurtured for the Olympian Game,
Gains strength, at least, for Life.

He who desires the conquest over Time,
Already lives in some immortal dream,
And the Thought glides beneath th' Ideal Clime
With moonlight on its stream!

I thank thee, Hope, if vain, all blessed still,

For much that makes the soul forget the clay; The morning dew still balms the sadden'd hill, Though sun forsakes the day.

And what is Fame but Faith in holy things

That soothe the life and shall outlive the tomb ?
A reverent listening for some angel-wings
That cower above the gloom?

To gladden earth with beauty, or men's lives

To serve with Action, or their souls with Truth-
These are the ends for which the Hope survives
Th' ignobler thirsts of Youth.

And is not this a Sister-Hope with thee,
Lovely Religion-foe alike to Time?
Does not God's smile light Heaven, on earth to see
Man's faith in ends sublime?

No! I lament not-though these leaves may fall
From the sear'd branches on the desert plain,
Mock'd by the idle winds that waft-and all

Life's blooms-(its last)-in vain.

If vain for others--not in vain for me!—
Who builds an altar let him worship there!
What needs the crowd?-though lone the Shrine may be,
Not hallow'd less the Prayer!

Enough if, haply, in the after-days,

When by the altar sleeps the funeral stone-
When gone the mists our wizard passions raise,
And Truth is seen alone;

When Calumny its prey can wound no more,
And fawns its late repentance on the dead-
If gentle footsteps from some kindlier shore
Pause by the narrow bed;

Or if yon children, whose young sounds of glee
Float to mine ear the evening gales along,
Recalls some echo, in their years to be,

Of not all-perished song;

Taking some spark to glad the hearth, or light
The student-lamp from now-neglected fires ;-
And one sad memory in the Sons requite

What-I forgive the Sires!

THE VILLAGE BUDGET. BY THE PARISH SCHOOLMASTER.

No. IV. THE LEDY O' Muntsire.
"the tale

"Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,

That walks at dead of night."—Blair.

ONE boisterous evening in December, 18—, there sat around the cheerful hearth of the worthy Menie Ringan, a small but happy party, consisting of the worthy woman herself, her niece Annie Kirkland, and that niece's sweetheart, Hugh Mair, the young blacksmith. And there they sat around "an ingle blinkin' bonnily," as merry and happy a party as one might wish to see. Amidst many harmless jokes and sly remarks, I wist the time passed cheerily away; and if occasionally some whisperings were carried on between the young folks, doubtless, they were of a harmless nature, and gave a greater zest to their pleasure and enjoyment.

Before, however, proceeding with the veritable history, the particulars whereof are hereinafter recorded, with your permission, fair and courteous reader, I must bestow a few words of introduction on the kind-hearted Menie Ringan. Understand then, that Menie, or Miss Ringan, as she was called on several rare occasions, was proprietor of the very snug cottage in which she dwelt; whilst, being in receipt of a small annuity besides, she had acquired the reputation of being "pretty weel to do in the world ;" and

further, that she, the said Menie, did not fail to enjoy her fortune in a crouse and canty manner; being always glad to have happy faces smiling around her, to whom she might relate strange events of the olden time-the time when she was "but a lassie yet." She was a maiden of what is called the "old school," and one besides who was pretty well stricken in years, for although she could not be called an "auld wife "-a title she somewhat contemptuously spurned,-yet there could be little doubt that the one of "old maid" was hers by right, and not by courtesy; seeing she had attained the very respectable age of-I will not say how many years above or below fifty, and was still unmarried. Whatever was Menie's age, there could be little mistake in placing her in the old school class, for the venerable appearance of her somewhat prim countenance, her antique dress, her manners and habits, were those of a by-gone generation; while her likings and dislikings, her feelings and prejudices, were all strongly tinctured with its superstitions.

No one knew this weakness in her character better than Annie Kirkland, but so much amusement did that lively girl derive from teasing her on this subject, that she recurred to it oftener than prudence or even respect required. Sadly did this conduct perplex the old lady; for Annie was her especial favourite, and had been an inmate in her house from childhood. In fact, she was more to be regarded as an adopted daughter than a mere niece, for she had been left to Menie's care as an orphan, at a very tender age; and though her sprightly rogueries, it must be confessed, disturbed the equanimity of her temper not a little, yet Menie ever felt towards her the faithful love of a kindly heart.

However, to proceed. Around the fire all three sat, chatting, laughing, and joking-the benevolent countenance of Menie lit up with a glow of pleasure, so much did she relish the happiness which the others were enjoying; but not to appear as if encouraging aught that partook of idleness, there was she knitting away incessantly at a worsted stocking, still maintaining, however, her full share in the conversation with the greatest good humour.

"The Glenhaw folks are to hae a grand ball next Friday, aunty," said Annie, after a few whisperings with Hugh, "and as our freend here is ane o' them that's to be there, he wants to ken if I could gang wi' him for his partner; but I was just tellin' him," said she, with an arch glance of fun and frolic, "that he micht ken I neer gaed to such places o' daffin', and that it would be a hantel wiser-like, gin he speered if you wouldna be his partner yersel. What think ye?"

"What think I ?" exclaimed her aunt in amazement"Deed, that ye're jist the wildest, and maist thochtless lassie I ever kent. O Annie, Annie, whan will ye gie owre yer nonsense?"

"And sae ye'll no gang to the ball then? Weel, I think ye're wrang there, aunty. Nac doubt o't."

"My dancin' days are owre, lang sin syne, as ye weel ken, Annie," replied Menie, good humouredly; "but I'm far mistaen if ye dinna gang yersel-at least, it'll no be for the want o' will, sae we'll try an' hae ye a' richt gin Friday, an' if Hugh maks promise to tak guid care o' ye, an' brings ye hame in a wiselike hour o' nicht, I'se hae nae objection."

Who can doubt of the nature of Hugh's reply? If he was happy before, he was much more so now, in the anticipation of some hours of pleasure, to be enjoyed in the presence of his winsome, bonny sweetheart.

"How mony are gaun frae this?" inquired Menie of Hugh.

"O there's Tam Johnstone, and Rab Love, and a wheen mair," he replied, "a' to hae their lassies wi' them; so

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