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prolonged by the moaning waves. As I saw the ship staggering and plunging among these roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water; her bow was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes, an impending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the shock.

me.

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed The whistling of the wind through the rigging, sounded like funeral wailings. The creaking of the masts, the straining and groaning of bulk-heads, as the ship labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing along the sides of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if death were raging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey: the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him entrance.

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out in all her canvass, every sail swelled, and careering gaily over the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant she appears! how she seems to lord it over the deep! But it is time to get ashore.

It was a fine sunny morning, when the thrilling cry of "land!" was heard from the mast-head. None, but those who have experienced it, can form an idea of the delicious throng of sensations which rush into an American's bosom, when he first comes in sight of Europe. There is a volume of associations with the very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with everything of which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have pondered... From that time, until the moment of arrival, it was all feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like guardian giants along the coast; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out into the channel; the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds; all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, my eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green grass-plats. I saw the ruins of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the spire of the village church, rising from the brow of a neighbouring hill. All were characteristic of England.

The tide and wind were so favorable, that the ship was enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with people; some, idle lookers-on; others, eager expectants of friends or relatives. I could distinguish the merchant to whom

the ship was consigned. I knew him by his calculating brow and restless air. His hands were thrust into his pockets; he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a small space having been accorded to him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary importance. There were repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged between the shore and the ship, as friends happened to recognise each other.

name...

I particularly noticed one young woman, of humble dress, but interesting demeanor. She was leaning forward from among the crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She seemed disappointed and agitated, when I heard a faint voice call her It was from a poor sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one on board. When the weather was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him, on deck, in the shade; but of late, his illness had so increased, that he had taken to his hammock, and only breathed a wish, that he might see his wife before he died. He had been helped on deck, as we came up the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of affection did not recognise him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his features; it read at once the whole volume of sorrow; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in silent agony.

All was now hurry and bustle; the meetings of acquaintances; the greetings of friends; the consultations of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my forefathers, but felt that I was a stranger in the land. W. Irving.

THE MONK.

A POOR monk of the order of St. Francis, came into the room to beg something for his convent. The moment I cast my eyes upon him, I was predetermined not to give him a single sou; and, accordingly, I put my purse into my pocket, buttoned it up, set myself a little more upon my centre, and advanced gravely to him. There was something, I fear, forbidding in my look; I have his figure this moment before my eyes, and think there was that in it which deserved better.

The monk, as I judged from the break in his tonsure, a few scattered white hairs being all that remained of it, might be

about seventy; but from his eyes, and that sort of fire that was in them, which seemed more tempered by courtesy than years, could be no more than sixty: truth might lie between; he was certainly sixty-five, and the general air of his countenance, notwithstanding something seemed to have been planting wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the account... It was one of those heads which Guido has often painted; mild, pale, penetrating; free from all commonplace ideas of fat, contented ignorance looking downward upon the earth, it looked forward; but looked as if it looked at something beyond this world. How one of his order came by it, Heaven above, who let it fall upon a monk's shoulders, best knows; but it would have suited a Brahmin, and had I met it upon the plains of Hindostan, I should have reverenced it.

The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes; one might put it into the hands of any one to design, for it was neither elegant nor otherwise, but as character and expression made it so it was a thin, spare form, something above the common size, if it lost not the distinction by a bend forward in the figure; but it was the attitude of entreaty; and, as it now stands present to my imagination, it gained more than it lost by it.

When he had entered the room three paces, he stood still; and laying his left hand upon his breast, a slender, white staff, with which he journeyed, being in his right, when I had got close up to him, he introduced himself with the little story of the wants of his convent, and the poverty of his order; and did it with so simple a grace, and such an air of deprecation was there in the whole cast of his look and figure, I was bewitched not to have been struck with it. One reason was, I had predetermined not to give him a single sou.

""Tis very true," said I, replying to a cast upward with his eyes, with which he had concluded his address," 'tis very true, and Heaven be their resource who have no other but the charity of the world, the stock of which, I fear, is no way sufficient for the many great claims which are hourly made upon it"... As

I pronounced the words " great claims," he gave a slight glance with his eye downward upon the sleeve of his tunic. I felt the full force of the appeal... "I acknowledge it," said I, “a coarse habit, and that but once in three years, and meagre diet, are no great matters; the true point of pity is, as they can be earned in the world with so little industry, that your order should wish to procure them by pressing upon a fund which is the property of the lame, the blind, the aged, and the infirm: the captive, who lies down, counting over and over again the

days of his afflictions, languishes, also, for his share of it; and had you been of the order of Mercy, instead of the order of St. Francis, poor as I am," continued I, pointing at my portmanteau, "full cheerfully should it have been opened to you

for the ransom of the unfortunate."... The monk made me a bow. "But of all others," resumed I, "the unfortunate of our own country have the first rights; I have left thousands in distress upon our own shore." The monk gave a cordial wave of the head, as much as to say: No doubt there is misery enough in every corner of the world, as well as within our convent... "But we distinguish," said I, laying my hand upon the sleeve. of his tunic, in return for his appeal, "we distinguish, my good father, betwixt those who wish to eat only the bread of their own labor, and those who eat the bread of other people's, and have no other plan in life but to get through it in sloth and ignorance, for the love of God." " ...The poor Franciscan made no reply: a hectic flush, for a moment, passed across his cheek, but could not tarry. Nature seemed to have done with her resentments in him; he showed none, but letting his staff fall within his arm, he pressed both his hands with resignation upon his breast, and retired.

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My heart smote me, the moment he shut the door. "Pshaw!" said I, with an air of carelessness, three several times: but it would not do: every ungracious syllable I had uttered crowded back into my imagination; I reflected I had no right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him; and that the punishment of that was enough to the disappointed, without the addition of unkind language. I considered his grey hairs; his courteous figure seemed to re-enter, and gently ask me what injury he had done me? and why I could use him thus? I would have given twenty pounds for an advocate. I have behaved very ill, said I, within myself; but I have only just set out upon my travels, and shall learn better manners as I get along.

Sterne.

MASSACRE OF GLENCOE (1691).

THE authorities at Edinburgh put forth a proclamation exhorting the Highland clans to submit to King William and Queen Mary, and offering pardon to every rebel who, on or before the thirty-first of December 1691, should swear to live peaceably under the new government. It was announced that those who should hold out after that day would be treated as enemies and traitors.

The thirty-first of December arrived; and still the Macdonalds of Glencoe had not come in. The punctilious pride of Mac Ian was doubtless gratified by the thought that he had continued to defy the government after the boastful Glengarry, the ferocious Keppoch, the magnanimous Lochiel had yielded: but he bought his gratification dear.

The news that Mac Ian had not submitted within the prescribed time was received with cruel joy by three powerful Scotchmen, who were then at the English court. To Argyle, as to his cousin Breadalbane, the intelligence that the tribe of Glencoe was out of the protection of the law was most gratifying; and the Secretary, the Master of Stair, more than sympathised with them both... The feeling of Argyle and Breadalbane is perfectly intelligible. They were the heads of a great clan; and they had an opportunity of destroying a neighboring clan with which they were at deadly feud. Breadalbane had received peculiar provocation. His estate had been repeatedly devastated; and he had just been thwarted in a negotiation of high amount. The Earl of Stair hated the Highlanders, not as enemies of this or that dynasty, but as enemies of law, of industry, and of trade. To the last moment he continued to flatter himself that the rebels would be obstinate, and would thus furnish him with a plea for accomplishing that great social revolution on which his heart was set... One clan was now at the mercy of the government, and that clan the most lawless of all. One great act of justice, nay of charity, might be performed. One terrible and memorable example might be given. "Better," he wrote, "not meddle with them, than meddle to no purpose. When the thing is resolved, let it be secret and sudden." He was obeyed; and it was determined that the Glencoe men should perish, not by military execution, but by the most dastardly and perfidious form of assassination.

On the first of February, a hundred and twenty soldiers of Argyle's regiment, commanded by a captain named Campbell, and a lieutenant named Lindsay, marched to Glencoe. Captain Campbell was commonly called in Scotland, Glenlyon, from the pass in which his property lay. He had every qualification for the service on which he was employed, an unblushing forehead, a smooth lying tongue, and a heart of adamant. He was also one of the few Campbells who were likely to be trusted and welcomed by the Macdonalds: for his niece was married to Alexander, the second son of Mac Ian.

The sight of the red-coats approaching, caused some anxiety among the population of the valley. John, the eldest son of the Chief, came, accompanied by twenty clansmen, to meet the

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