which, joined to his other labours, were sufficient to wear out the most robust constitution, and he at last sunk under their weight. cessible to all classes. Why should their treasures be confined to a select few? It is our intention, therefore, to give a philosophical analysis of these profound works, similar in some respects to what is found in the higher class of medical reviews. The difficulty is no doubt great, yet in our opinion it is not insurmountable. Our object is to be popular and yet scientific, and brief without becoming obscure. By abbreviating details, and giving prominence to principles, by an exhibition of results rather than of processes, by sometimes stating in a few sentences an argument which occupies pages in the original, and then allowing the author to speak for himself, we expect to introduce our readers to a more elevated department of intellectual pursuits than that to which many of them have been accustomed, and make them masters of the train of thought and the nature of the illustrations which are employed in these valuable productions. In private life, Dr Thomson was every thing that is amiable and engaging. He was mild, and gentle, and cheerful; deeply tender and acutely sensitive in his strongest affections; most faithful and true in his attachments of friendship; kind-hearted and indulgent to all with whom he had intercourse. His firm adherence to principle, when he thought principle involved, whatever appearance of severity it may have presented to those who saw him only as a public character, had no taint of harshness in his private life; and unbending as he certainly was in principle, he never failed to receive with kindness what was addressed to his reason in the spirit of friendship. It may indeed be said with truth, that, great as were his public merits, and deplorable the public loss in his death, yet to those who had the happiness to live with The first of these treatises is by Dr Chalmers. It is him in habits of intimacy, the deepest and the bitterest styled The Adaptation of External Nature to the Moral feeling still is, the separation from a man who possessed and Intellectual Constitution of Man;' and is published so many of the finest and most amiable sensibilities of the in two octavo volumes. The author informs us at the human heart. It was around his own family hearth, and outset, that he has entered upon a wider field than what in the circle of his intimate acquaintances, that Dr Thom- seems to be indicated by the title. By external nature is son was peculiarly delightful. In him the lion and the commonly understood the material universe: but he has lamb may be said to have met together. It was equally enlarged the phrase so as to make it include all that is natural in him to play with a child, and to enter the lists external to the individual himself. Certain adaptations with a practised polemic. He could be gay without levity, might be traced between the material creation and one and grave without moroseness. His frank and bland human mind, supposing that it existed alone; but a more manners, the equable flow of his cheerfulness and good powerful argument in favour of the divine perfections humour, and the information which he possessed on al- may be constructed from the fact, that man is the member most every subject, made his company to be courted by of a social community, and surrounded by beings like persons of all classes. He could mix with men of the himself. By this simple extension of the phrase, the author world without compromising his principles, or lowering has at once brought within his reach any of the great his character as a minister of the gospel; and his pre-economic and political questions which he may please to sence was enough to repress any thing which had the consider as bearing upon his argument. semblance of irreligion. The loss of such a man, and at such a time, is incalculable. His example and spirit had a wholesome and refreshing, an exhilarating and elevating influence, on the society in which he moved; and even the agitation which he produced when he was in his stormy moods, was salutary-like the hurricane (his own favourite image, and the last which he employed in public), purifying the moral atmosphere, and freeing it from the selfishness, and duplicity, and time-serving, with which it was overcharged.' THE BRIDGEWATER TREATISES. FIRST ARTICLE. THE origin of the Bridgewater Treatises is well known. The late Earl of Bridgewater, who died in 1829, left eight thousand pounds to the president for the time being of the Royal Society, to be given to the person or persons whom he might please to appoint to write a work on the Power, Wisdom, and Goodness of God, as manifested in the Creation.' The President (Gilbert Davies, Esq.) was unwilling to take the entire responsibility upon himself, and he took the advice of the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London as to the best method of carrying into effect the intention of the noble and reverend testator. Eight persons were thus selected, who were each to receive a thousand pounds, in addition to the profits which would be derived from publication. The authors who were thus honoured are, beyond all question, worthy of the distinction which has been conferred upon them; but it may admit of dispute whether the best method was adopted. Competition might have developed genius and power that to a large extent had been lying dormant or unknown. It is probable, too, that greater good would have been effected had the treatises been shorter. The fault of the Bridgewater Treatises consists in their length; admirable as they are, few persons comparatively have time to peruse them with the care which they deserve. They are, moreover, so expensive, as to command only a limited range of readers. In these circumstances, it has occurred to us that it would be a public benefit to make them ac The first general argument under this head is founded on the supremacy of conscience. It occupies the first chapter. The author very properly commences his task by disencumbering the question of many topics with which it is in danger of being confounded, and thus reducing it to its simple and proper elements. It has no connexion whatever with the philosophical disputes regarding the nature of our mental constitution, the faculties which belong to it, or the character of the laws, whether primary or secondary, by which it is governed. Nor is it of any moment in this discussion, as to the authority of conscience, in what manner it has been seated in the human bosom. It may be an original principle in our nature, or it may be the result of circumstances in which all are placed; but in either case the requirement is of the same force. Moreover, it is not affected by the consideration that other principles do, with greater or lesser frequency, obtain a practical ascendency over conscience. Of this there is an ample and melancholy evidence in the history of our race; but we ought to distinguish betwixt an original tendency and a subsequent aberration. Every one knows what is the object of the regulator in a watch, and it would be unjust to disparage the skill and intention of the artist, because the machinery has received some injury, which prevents the regulator from acting with that promptitude and accuracy which it would otherwise do. In this manner the examination is reduced to its proper limits. It is not a question as to the sources of conscience, but as to the fact of conscience: not how it has found its way into the human bosom, but has it a dwelling-place there? It is not a question whether men always act under the influence of conscience, but whether each of the species has not an impression, which it is impossible to eradicate, that he ought ever to follow its dictates. It is not a question as to the actual but to the rightful supremacy of conscience. Is it true or is it not, that that principle which pronounces upon the good or evil of actions, demands an absolute and unqualified superiority over all the other principles of human nature? Does conscience sit as a queen among the other faculties of our mental constitution? To this only one answer can be given, for to borrow the philosophical language of Butler, This is a constituent part of the idea, that is, of the faculty itself: and to preside and govern, from the very economy and constitution of man, belongs to it. Had it strength, as it has right; had it power, as it has manifest authority; it would absolutely govern the world.' Had the Creator been a being who loves iniquity and hates righteousness, he would never have given to man such a moral constitution. As we infer the genius of an architect from the building he has constructed, so the moral character of Deity is inscribed upon the living image which he has made of himself. of Now it is in these phenomena of conscience, that nature offers to us far her strongest argument for the moral character of God. Had he been an unrighteous being himself, would he have given to this, the obviously superior faculty in man, so distinct and authoritative a voice on the side of righteousness? Would he have so constructed the creatures of our species, as to have planted in every breast a reclaiming witness against himself? Would he have thus inscribed on the tablet of every heart the sentence of his own condemnation; and is not this just as unlikely, as that he should have inscribed it in written characters on the forehead of each individual? Would he have so fashioned the workmanship of his own hands; or, if a God of cruelty, injustice, and falsehood, would he have placed in the station of master and judge that faculty which, felt to be the highest in our nature, would prompt a generous and highminded revolt of all our sentiments against the being who formed us? From a God possessed of such characteristics, we should surely have expected a differently-moulded humanity; or, in other words, from the actual constitution man, from the testimonies on the side of all righteousness, given by the vicegerent within the heart, do we infer the righteousness of the sovereign who placed it there. He would never have established a conscience in man, and invested with the authority of a monitor, and given to it those legislative and judicial functions which it obviously possesses; and then so framed it, that all its decisions should be on the side of that virtue which he himself disowned, and condemnatory of that vice which he himself exemplified. This is an evidence for the righteousness of God which keeps its ground amid all the disorders and aberrations to which humanity is liable; and can no more, indeed, be deafened or overborne by these, than is the rightful authority of public opinion, by the occasional outbreakings of iniquity and violence which take place in society. This public opinion may, in those seasons of misrule when might prevails over right, be deforced from the practical ascendency which it ought to have; but the very sentiment that it so ought, is our reason for believing the world to have been originally formed in order that virtue might have the rule over it. In like manner, when, in the bosom of every individual man, we can discern a conscience, placed there with the obvious design of being a guide and a commander, it were difficult not to believe, that, what ever the partial outrages may be which the cause of virtue has to sustain, it has the public mind of the universe in its favour; and that therefore he, who is the maker and the ruler of such a universe, is a God of righteousness. Amid all the subsequent obscurations and errors, the original design, both of a deranged watch and of a deranged human nature, is alike manifest; first, of the maker of the watch, that its motions should harmonise with time; second, of the maker of man, that his movements should harmonise with truth and righteousness. We can, in most cases, discern between an aberration and an original law; between a direct or primitive tendency and the effect of a disturbing force, by which that tendency is thwarted and overborne. And so of the constitution of man. It may be now a loosened and disproportioned thing, yet we can trace the original structure-even as from the fragments of a ruin, we can obtain the perfect model of a building from its capital to its base. It is thus that, however prostrate conscience may have fallen, we can still discern its place of native and original pre-eminence, as being at once the legislator and the judge in the moral system, though the executive forces of the system have made insurrection against it, and thrown the whole into anarchy. There is a depth of mystery in every thing connected with the existence or the origin of evil in creation; yet, even in the fiercest uproar of our stormy passions, conscience, though in her softest whispers, gives to the supremacy of rectitude the voice of an undying testimony; and her light still shining in a dark place, her unquelled accents still heard in the loudest outcry of nature's rebellious appetites, form the strongest argument within reach of the human faculties, that, in spite of all partial or temporary derange ments, supreme power and supreme goodness are at one. It is true that rebellious man hath, with daring footstep, trampled on the lessons of conscience; but why, in spite of man's perversity, is conscience, on the other hand, able to lift a voice so piercing and so powerful, by which to remonstrate against the wrong, and to reclaim the honours that are due to her? How comes it that, in the mutiny and uproar of the inferior faculties, that faculty in man, which wears the stamp and impress of the highest, should remain on the side of truth and holiness? Would humanity have thus been moulded by a false and evil spirit; or would he have committed such impolicy against himself, as to insert in each member of our species a principle which would make him feel the greatest complacency in his own rectitude, when he feels the most high-minded revolt of indignation and dislike against the being who gave him birth? It is not so much that conscience takes a part among the other faculties of our nature; but that conscience takes among them the part of a governor, and that man, if he do not obey her suggestions, still, in despite of himself, acknowledges her rights. It is a mighty argument for the virtue of the governor above, that all the laws and injunctions of the governor below are on the side of virtue. It seems as if he had left this representative, or remaining witness, for himself, in a world that had cast off its allegiance; and that, from the voice of the judge within the breast, we may learn the will and the character of him who hath invested with such authority his dictates. It is this which speaks as much more demonstratively for the presidency of a righteous God in human affairs, than for that of impure or unrighteous demons, as did the rod of Aaron, when it swallowed the rods of the enchanters and magicians in Egypt. In the wildest anarchy of man's insurgent appetites and sins, there is still a reclaiming voice-a voice which, even when in practice disregarded, it is impossible not to own; and to which, at the very moment that we refuse our obedience, we find that we cannot refuse the homage of what ourselves do feel and acknowledge to be the best the highest principles of our nature.' In all ages, and in every country, the principle has been recognised that there is an essential difference between right and wrong. Crime has ever been succeeded by remorse, and this is the truth which was so powerfully exhibited upon the ancient classic stage, when wicked men were represented as continually pursued and terrified by the furies with their burning torches. Think not, says Cicero, in a noble passage, that these events actually occurred. No. It is guilt, and the consternation thence arising, that torments every wicked man, disturbs his rest, and even drives him mad; his own evil thoughts and conscious heart fill him with terror. These are the constant, the domestic furies of the wicked.' To this historical argument it has indeed been objected, that there is not that uniformity of moral judgments which one is prepared to expect. What is counted a sinful employment by one person may not be regarded so by another. The slave trade is still in existence. Actions that are reckoned immoral by one nation are held in great repute by another, and human sacrifices are still offered up in Hindostan. These, however, do not affect the general question. Even they who encourage and practise those atrocities do so from other considerations than from their cruelty; and not only in their own heart, but in the reasons which are adduced for such conduct, they pay homage to the eternal and immutable law of morality. Nowhere is crime honoured because it is crime: nowhere is virtue dishonoured because it is virtue. The suffrages of mankind are not given to the man who murders his friend, and withheld from him, who at imminent danger has rescued his enemy from the devouring waves. Collect men of every nation and age upon a vast plain, and place before them a Nero and a Howard, and it admits not of a moment's doubt that the English philanthropist would be received with shouts of approbation, while the Roman Emperor would be assailed with a universal yell of execration. There is thus a great uniformity in moral judgments, and the exceptions, when fairly examined, are so few and trivial as scarcely to deserve a solid refutation; and it would be as idle to argue, from occasional monstrosities, against the perfection and symmetry of the human frame, or, from some instances of bad taste, against the existence of a correct standard of taste, as to infer from certain isolated and easily explained facts in human history, that there is no universal moral sentiment. Let us listen to the declaration of the heathen moralist we have formerly quoted. There is indeed a true law, a right reason, which is agreeable to nature, diffused over all, invariable, eternal, which summons us to duty by its orders, and deters us from crime by its prohibition. Nothing can supersede this law, nothing retrench it or make it void. It is in the power neither of the senate nor of the people to dispense with its obligations. It requires no comment; it demands no interpreter. It is not one law at Rome and another at Athens; one at present and another hereafter; but among all nations, and in all time, it will remain one eternal and immutable law. Let us kear the words of a nobler than Cicero in support of this doctrine. For when the Gentiles, which have not the law (in a written form), do by nature (the moral constitution which God has bestowed upon them) the things contained in the (written) law, these, having not the law (in a written form) are a law unto themselves; which show the work of the law written in their hearts, their conscience also bearing them witness, and their thoughts the meanwhile accusing or else excusing one another.' The second general argument is contained in the second chapter, which is thus entitled, 'On the inherent pleasure of the virtuous and misery of the vicious affections.' to our health and life, is an instance of gratuitous benevolence upon the part of the Creator, and forms one of the many links in the chain, by which it is proved that God is love. It is thus also in the present instance. You do good to another man, and you experience a sense of pleasure in the very performance. Your own happiness was not thought of, and yet it is infallibly realised. There might have been no special gratification of this nature, and yet a virtuous action would not have ceased to be a duty, nor would it have failed to secure, upon reflection, the approbation of your conscience. Take compassion for one instance out of the many. The object of this affection is the relief of another's misery, and, in the fulfilment of this, does the affection meet with its full solace and gratification; that is, in a something altogether external from himself. It is true, that there is an appropriate pleasure in the indulgence of this affection, even as there is in the indulgence of every other; and in proportion, too, to the strength of the affection, will be the greatness of the pleasure. The man who is doubly more compassionate than his fellow, will have doubly a greater enjoyment in the relief of misery; yet that, most assuredly, not because he of the two is the more intently set on his own gratification, but because he of the two is the more intently set on an outward accomplishment, the relief of another's wretchedness. The truth is, that, just because more compassionate than his fellow, the more intent is he than the other on the object of this affection, and the less intent is he than the other on the subject of this affection. His thoughts and feelings are more drawn away to the sufferer, and therefore more drawn away from himself. He is the most occupied with the object of this affection; and, on that very account, the least occupied with the pleasure of its indulgence. And it is precisely the objective quality of these regards, which stamps upon compassion the character of a disinterested affection. He surely is the most compassionate whose thoughts and feelings are most drawn away to the sufferer, and most drawn away from self; or, in other words, most taken up with the direct consideration of him who is the object of this affection, The argument may be presented in this form. There is and least taken up with the reflex consideration of the a pleasure which is the inevitable result of a good action, pleasure that he himself has in the indulgence of it. Yet which has its source in the idea that our conduct has been this prevents not the pleasure from being actually felt; in accordance with the dictates of conscience; but in addi- aud felt, too, in very proportion to the intensity of the comtion to this, there is an enjoyment in the very exercise of passion; or, in other words, more felt the less it has been virtuous feelings, apart altogether from the object con- thought of at the time, or the less it has been pursued for templated. There is also a misery which is invariably its own sake. It seems unavoidable in every affection, produced by reflection, after a bad action has been per- that, the more a thing is loved, the greater must be the formed this is called remorse, and has its origin in the pleasure of indulging the love of it: yet it is equally unconsciousness that our conduct has been in opposition to avoidable, that the greater in that case will be our aim what we know to be right; but in addition, there is a posi- towards the object of the affection, and the less will be our tive pain in the very exercise of the vicious and malignant aim towards the pleasure which accompanies its gratificaaffections, which has no connexion with the feeling called tion. And thus, to one who reflects profoundly and careremorse. It thus appears that not only our intellect, but fully on these things, it is no paradox that he who has had our heart, not only the thoughts but the emotions are en- doubly greater enjoyment than another in the exercise of listed I upon the side of virtue, and stand out in open enmity compassion, is doubly the more disinterested of the two; to vice. Man is so constituted by his wise and benevolent that he has had the most pleasure in this affection who creator, that there is happiness in the very act of doing has been the least careful to please himself with the indulgood, and misery in the very act of doing evil, independ-gence of it; that he whose virtuous desires, as being the ent of that operation of the mind which looks backward upon the deed, and pronounces an impartial judgment, as to its bearing upon the eternal law of morality. Butler has clearly brought out the distinction betwixt the final object of our desires, and the pleasure which is inseparable It is admitted that there is a pleasure in the gratificafrom their' gratification: and his illustration of it is un- tion of our affections. This cannot be denied; it is expressed commonly happy and simple. You are hungry and you in the very collocation of our words; but nevertheless the desire food. It is brought you and you eat it. Why? You doctrine holds good, that the very feeling of kindness is do so to appease the cravings of hunger, and you have no pleasant, and the very feeling of hatred is painful. This other object in view. But to the very act of eating God may be safely appealed to each individual experience, and has annexed a feeling of enjoyment, which has no refer- the lesson would become more striking if we saw it acted ence to the final object upon which your mind is fixed, out upon a large scale, and first contemplated one commusatisfying the appetite for food. It might have been other-nity where all was love, and then turned our attention to one wise. It might have been so arranged that we must eat, where all was malice. The former is irradiated with the in order to preserve our existence, and yet the act might sunshine of heaven; the latter is shrouded in the darkness not only have been unaccompanied by pleasure, but have of hell. This idea as to the inherent pleasure or misery of been positively disagreeable. The gratification which is virtuous or vicious affections, acquires more prominence inseparable from partaking of that food which is essential when contrasted in the following manner. Conceive the af strongest, have in their gratification ministered to self the greatest satisfaction, has been the least actuated of all his fellows by the wishes, and stood at the greatest distance from the aims of selfishness.' waved above his head, while, at the utmost extent of his 'Good luck to the lad that wears the tartan plaid, The right and the wrang we shall ken ere lang, Perhaps, from the now near position of the enemy, he fections disappointed with regard to their object: kindness is unable to relieve the want, malice is baffled of its revenge. Which of the affections is now to be envied? Suppose now the affections gratified as regards their object. Love has effected its purpose, and realised the good intended; hatred has been successful, and such a revenge taken as to leave nothing more to be desired. Upon whose side is the greater enjoyment experienced? It cannot be too much insisted upon, that in most cases, all that we obtain by the gratification of a malignant passion, is but the exchange of one misery for another; and this apart still from the remorse of an evil perpetration. There is one familiar instance of it, which often occurs in conversation-when, piqued by something offensive in the remark or manner of our fellows, we react with a severity which humbles and overwhelms him. In this case, the pain of the resentment is succeeded by the pain we feel in the spectacle of that distress which ourselves have created; and this, too, aggravated perhaps by the reprobation of all the by-standers, affording thereby a miniature example of the painful alternations which are constantly taking place in the history of moral evil; when the misery of wrong affections is but replaced, to the perpetrator himself, by the misery of the wrong actions to which they have hurried him. It is thus that a life of frequent gratification may, notwithstanding, be a life of intense wretchedness. It may help our imagination of such a state, to conceive of one, subject every hour to the agonies of hunger, with such a mal-conformation at the same time in his organ of taste, that, in food of every description, he felt a bitter and universal nausea. There were here a constant gratification, yet a constant and severe endurance -a mere alternation of cruel sufferings-the displacement of one set of agonies, by the substitution of other agonies in their room. This is seldom, perhaps never realised in the physical world; but in the moral world it is a great and general phenomenon. The example shows at least the possibility of a constitution, under which a series of incessant gratifications may be nothing better than a restless succession of distress and disquietude; and that such should be the constitution of our moral nature as to make a life of vice a life of vanity and cruel vexation, is strong experimental evidence of him who ordained this constitution, that he hateth iniquity, that he loveth righteous-ower sune, you'll no hae the breath, an ye had the heart ness.' A TALE OF THE FORTY-FIVE. BY MISS M. FRASER TYTLER. It is well known, that upon the morning of the battle of Culloden, one half of the unhappy prince's army, worn with fatigue, and literally famishing on the scanty allowance to which they were reduced, had dispersed themselves in search of food through the surrounding country. Many had repaired to Inverness, and at an early hour stragglers were seen returning singly, or in groups, to the rendezvous on that fatal field. Among these was Duncan M'Intosh, whose successful forage had so far invigorated body and mind, that little of the desponding look, or the worn and haggard air of the morning, was now discernible in the athletic figure, or in the free and rapid tread of the handsome Highlander. The most picturesque of all garbs, whether donned by serf or noble, the well adjusted kilt, and full rich folds of the checkered plaid, showed to advantage the tall well-built frame and muscular limbs of the wearer, while his whole appearance denoted that strength and prowess, that had already made him the hero of many a rude ditty through the Highland hills. He was, in truth, a goodly sample of his mountain brethren, for his height approached almost to the gigantic. His open handsome countenance, expressive of firmness and resolve, bore also on every feature the stamp of good humour. His keen eye was restless and intelligent, and round the blue bonnet in which was worn the badge of his clan, clustered a profusion of dark brown curls. A broadsword of unusual dimensions completed the costume; and truly the ponderous weapon in his grasp trembled as light as hazel wand,' for with the most apparent case, ever and anon, it was The sudden apparition was not without its effect upon the Highlander, for the blood rushed to his swarthy cheek, and for a moment he appeared hesitating whether to continue his route, or to turn and fly. Then, with some hurried strides forward, he muttered between his clenched teeth: She can but foretell death or misfortune to mysel', and let them come; my prince is safe. The darkest fiend that ever trod the earth will no bespeak evil for him! Ay, he is safe! Safe in the strong arm and the true heart o' the monie wha are ready to die for him, as this day will prove. We'll gie Cumberland another Fontenoy, and then hurra for the prince, come what will o' me and the like o' me;' and he confronted the female, with a look as keen and piercing as her own. But again his eye fell, and again the blood rushed to his cheek and brow, then as rapidly retreating, left them perfectly colourless; for with a strong grasp laid upon his shoulder, while every feature of her withered countenance seemed distorted with agony, she exclaimed- Sing on, Duncan M'Intosh, sing on! Sune, to sing; for on that field, noo sae purple wi' blooming heather, will ye and your clan, ay, and your prince and your country, be lost, lost, lost!' and with a long shrill cry of agony, the poor maniac again tossed her arms wildly in the air. Ill-omened fiend,' gasped the quivering lips of the Highlander, tak back your words, or my dirk shall be dyed in your heart's bluid. Tak back your foul words, I say, or ye and I may baith rue the hour we hae met this day.' And once more the eye of the Highlander flashed fire, his figure seeming to dilate before her; but unmoved either by the passionate appeal or by the increasing rage of her companion, the woman tore the covering from her bosom, and with more of calmness in voice and manner, continued-The hand o' Duncan M'Intosh was never kent to miss its aim; strike then, and let me never see yon rising sun set on sic a day o' horror. Why dinna ye strike?' she went on, seeing that the hand of the soldier still nervously grasped the dirk that a moment before he had seized with so frantic a vehemence. Why dinna ye strike her wha saved your life in the battle o' Falkirk? better had ye been left to dee on that field o' victory, than 6 'I hae nae mind to hurt ye, mither,' interrupted the Highlander; 'but I heed na your words, and as thanks for the life, that it's true enow ye saved, when ithers nearer in kith and kin passed me by, Duncan M'Intosh will be the first to gie ye the tidings o' victory. Fare-ye-weel, mither, and dinna speak the words to anither ye hae spoken to me; they will maybe be less sparing o' your grey hairs.' Dinna ye speak the words that are far frae your heart, Duncan M'Intosh?' resumed the woman; 'weel de ye ken -nane better, that the curse o' God has fallen on my grey hairs, and that the een that might hae been blin' wi' the tears they hac shed, can yet see sights that ithers maunna see. For what else hae I been hunted by man and bairn, like the wolf i' the mountain or the fox i' the valley? for what else has my heart been turned to stane and my brain to fire? But ye hae had mair proof, Duncan M'Intosh; ye hae had mair proof than these. Didna I see your father's wraith, and didna his death come as I had foretold? Didna I warn ye no to take Marion M'lan as your bride? and does she sit noo by your hearth-stane? Is she rocking the wee bairn i' the cradle, or has she followed the base Sassenach to his hame? Didna I tell ye that in the sight of God and man she would bring sorrow on your head? And were these words fause, Duncan M'Intosh-were these words fause?' 6 and if they canna save their prince they will dee for him! But, hist, there's ae thing mair,' she continued, and then with renewed vehemence- Awa, Duncan M'Intosh, awa! Tell your prince, that as he wad seat his father i' the throne-as he wad keep the stain frae the name that has never kent stain till now, no to put the M-Donalds i' the left wing. But na, na, it's doomed, it's doomed; he canna 'scape it, and the life bluid o' their prince is on their heads this day! Ay, it's doomed, it's doomed! And is this then a time for the leal heart and the strong arm to be biding here? Think ye that in sic a strait Duncan M'Intosh winna be missed frae the clan? Awa, I say, awa.' The eye of the Highlander, which the moment before had The stunning effects of her communication had as it flashed fire, was now moistened with tears. Peace be were so paralysed the strong nerves of the Highlander, wi' her I hae lo'ed sae weel,' he said in a stified voice. If that he offered neither resistance nor reply, but, obeying the she sinned, mither, dearly has she suffered for that sin.' commanding gesture of the woman, strode hastily forward. 'Ay, ay,' again shrieked the woman. Ye ken that He had not, however, gone many yards ere suddenly stopthey were true-and will ye doubt that I hae seen waur ping- Fool that I hae been,' he said, to be moved by sights than these-sights that hae set my brain on fire? sic words as yon. The M'Donalds i' the left wing! as if it Bluid, say ye?-hae na I seen red waves o' bluid? hae na I wasna kent a' the warld ower, that it's on the right they seen the leal heart and the strong arm trampled i' the hae aye fought, sin' they garr'd the English ken the force earth, butchered like the beasts of the field? And waur yet, o' the Highland arm and the Highland claymore at Banwaur yet, hae na I seen him, the son o' God's anointed, nockburn! It's no' like that they'd gie up their birthright, stand alane among the dead-cursing his young life-curs- as they may ca' it. Na, na, I'll gang nae sic fool's errand ing the hopes, that high as they dance now in his heart, to the prince. But I ken what I'll do: I'll e'en gang back will be low enow ere lang? Ye doubt me still,' she exclaimed, as I cam'-I'll gar her unsay the words she spak; for, with increasing vehemence. Oh that I could doubt my senseless as they are, we'll hae nae foul glamour thrown ain sell. Ye think harm canna harm him-harm is round ower us by her this day. Fool, fool that I hae been; the him now.' Then with a sudden change of look and voice leaves o' the aik may fade, but the stem is still the king o' What wear ye sae proudly in your bonnet, Duncan the forest; and with impatient strides he retraced his M-Intosh?' way to the wizard's knoll. But the woman, or witch, as M-Intosh now termed her, was no longer there, and for some time his search continued unsuccessful, until recollecting the oak, under which it was said the wizard lay buried, he directed his steps to the spot. She was there, and, scated upon the ground, was chanting in a low voice a lament, or death-wail, in her native language. I hae come,' began the Highlander; but he started back in horror, for the blood flowed from a deep gash which the unfortunate woman had inflicted upon herself with a small dirk she was known to wear concealed about her person. With another of those shrill and startling cries, that had already rung so piercingly through the open moor, she started to her feet, and glaring wildly on him-'Wherefore are ye here?' she exclaimed. Do ye fear to meet death in behalf o' your prince? or come ye to see how Elspeth M'Intosh can die?' and again she plunged the dirk in her bosom. The Highlander seized the branch of ivy, and with an exulting laugh exclaimed- Thanks, mither, thanks, ye hae brought me to my senses; 'tis the badge o' my clan, and as it never fades, nae mair will the clan o' M'Intosh.' Dinna think that your badge is unkent by me-dinna think that your badge is unkent by me,' slowly reiterated the woman; and ye say true, as it never fades, so never will the clan of M'Intosh be extinct. Is na' the badge o' thy clan the ivy; the Grants the pine; the Frasers the yew; the Drummonds the holly; and do any o' these fade? Do they no brave alike the sun o' summer and the winter's snow? 6 Sae will it be wi' the clans,' exultingly interrupted M-Intosh. But calmly crossing her arms on her bosom, she muttered-Wi' his ain words will I confront him;' and with a mingled expression of contempt and pity, she fixed her eyes upon the young soldier, till observing his jesture of impatience, she went on. 'Ye will ken the truth owre sune; ye needna hurry the words that will sound mair bitter in your ears than wad your ain death-knell, for weel do ye lo'e your prince, and weel may you lo'e him, better than your ain heart's bluidbetter than the mither that bore ye; but it's vain, vain! Ye canna save him-fight wi' man ye may, but wi' Heaven ye daurna.' The voice of the poor woman had risen during this address to the shrill shriek of agony; but now sinking to the hoarse whisper of intense suffering, What is the badge o' thy prince, Duncan M'Intosh?" she asked; and the words seemed indeed to ring in the ears of the Highlander a knell more bitter than would have been his own deathwarrant. He attempted no reply, but, as if smitten with the sudden weakness of a child, his iron frame trembled in every limb, while with his eyes fixed upon hers, he listened to her words. 'His badge is the aik,' she went on; and as the aik is, so will be the fate o' thy prince; as it flourished, so ance did he; and as its withered leaves still hang on the branches, till they were forced aff by the new leaves i' the spring, so will thy prince, the rightfu' owner of the crown, be forced frae the throne, that was and is his birthright. But gang your ways, young man-gang your ways; dinna stay biding here--my een hae seen what maunna meet the e'e o' anither, and ye hae heard what nane else main hear. See that it be sae-and yet it's no at the thocht o' death that the heart o' a Highlander will quail; 'Hold, hold!' exclaimed Duncan M'Intosh, springing forward; 'ye are mad, mither, ye are mad; and ye dinna ken that ye break God's strictest law.' 'I hae had muckle to mak me mad,' said the dying woman; and my brain has reeled but not maddened. The justice o' Heaven will sleep through this day's fight; and why no' his vengeance too, though this deed be done? But didna I tell ye no to bide here, Duncan M'Intosh? Awa, young man, awa to the battle-field-awa to your bloody grave!' Her voice faltered; she sank back and expired. "Weary has been your life, and darker still is your deathday,' muttered the Highlander, gazing into the dimmed eyeballs of the corpse, as if to assure himself that life was indeed extinct; then drawing the tattered plaid in decent folds about the body, so as to conceal the face of the deadI hae loitered ower lang already,' he said; but gin I return from the field vanquished or a vanquisher, I will gie ye Christian burial,' and once more turning from the spot, he strode with rapid steps towards the battle-field. The Highland army was already drawn up in order of fight. Hundreds of true hearts, that hunger could not daunt, nor fatigue subdue, were there gathered round the prince, for whom so often they had fought and conquered; while at the distance of scarcely a mile, the army of the Duke of Cumberland covered twice the space of ground occupied by the Highlanders. The perfect order, the long compact line, the superior force of horse and artillery, were all scanned by the keen |