Dream on-and dream the Future into Fact- O torn Prophetic souls! Impassioned Righteousness-impassioned Love,— These are the wheels on which Millenniums move, And Glory nearer rolls. Tinlie Rhymes. JEAN DARUMPLE. HINGS were apt to be a little more lively on the evening of the Market Day in The Toun than on any other day of the week at the Village of Castlebraes. Besides the usual stir of extra customers at the Shop, the callers in passing to and from the County Town, and the excitement over the news about Jock and Jenny, the Dominie and the Laird, the Harvest and the Markets, the price of Cattle and the prospects for the Winter, there came towards NightFall an additional wave of excitement from the visit of these, on the Homeward journey, who, though by no means intoxicated, had been "tasting," and were explosive accordingly! The tongue of Jean Darumple, which had begun to wag energetically to the earliest passer-by in the morning, and had never rested since, whilst she served over the counter her ever-changing army of customers, showed absolutely no signs of weariness when the latest returning Plough-Boy or Farmer or Cotter saluted her again in the evening, or, as they phrased it, “roared in on the bye-gaun'." She had ever a blythe welcome, and a neighbourly word, and a sympathetic ear. She was certainly the best known and probably also the most widely appreciated Woman in all Castlebraes. The School Bairns unquestioningly believed that she could supply them with everything, "from a needle to an anchor," as they frequently affirmed. At any rate, they knew by experience that the "Village Coup," as they jokingly nicknamed it, could easily meet all demands which their occasional Pennies enabled them to make. Further, they were at one in the cherished opinion that, whatever the richer Scholars in great Cities might be able to buy, they never could beat Jean Darumple's "Bakes an' Yill," "Scones an' Treckle," "Bawbee Baps," "Orangers," "Blackman," and "Sweeties." On such an evening, in the course of my ramblings, I landed, as my instincts often led me to do, amongst the Quoit Players on the Village School Green, a few yards from Jean Darumple's door. Her Shop was by this time closed; and she herself, like many of the Neighbours, the mothers and sisters of the players, watched the game with friendly eyes, some knitting, some sewing, and all taking a share in the kindly, cheery, humorous, and promiscuous crack. It was deepening from Gloaming into Night when Gairliebanks, slightly elevated, and probably the last staggerer homewards, brought the news that "a sudden Parliamentary Election had been sprung on the Kintra by thae blackguard Raidicals; and |