Two friends, in interchange of heart and soul; The Luggie, by DAVID GRAY. Quem Di diligunt, adolescens moritur. DAVID GRAY. ITUATED in a by-road, about a mile from the small town of Kirkintilloch, and eight miles from the city of Glasgow, stands a cottage one storey high, roofed with slate, and surrounded by a little kitchen-garden. A whitewashed lobby, leading from the front to the back-door, divides this cottage into two sections; to the right, is a roof fitted up as a hand-loom weaver's workshop; to the left is a kitchen paved with stone, and opening into a tiny carpeted bedroom. In the workshop, a father, daughter, and sons worked all day at the loom. In the kitchen, a handsome cheery Scottish matron busied herself like a thrifty housewife, and brought the rest of the family about her at meals. All day long the soft hum of the loom was heard in th but when night came, mysterious thrown open, and the family retired extraordinary mural recesses. In this humble home, David Gray, weaver, resided for upwards of twent managed to rear a family of eight ch boys and three girls. His eldest author of "The Luggie and other Po hero of the present true history. David was born on the 29th of Ja He alone, of all the little household, to receive a decent education. From hood, the dark-eyed little fellow was wit and cleverness; and it was the his father's life that he should becom At the parish-school of Kirkintilloch to read, write, and cast up account moreover, instructed in the Latin Partly through the hard struggles of and partly through his own severe la pupil-teacher and private tutor, he was enabled to attend the classes at th University. In common with other ro lads, who live up dark alleys, subsist chiefly on oatmeal and butter forwarded from home, and eventually distinguish themselves in the classroom, he had to fight his way onward amid poverty and privation; but in his brave pursuit of knowledge nothing daunted him. It had been settled at home that he should become a minister of the Free Church of Scotland. Unfortunately, however, he had no love for the pulpit. Early in life he had begun to hanker after the delights of poetical composition. He had devoured the poets from Chaucer to Wordsworth. The yearnings thus awakened in him had begun to express themselves in many wild fragments-contributions, for the most part, to the poet's-corner of a local newspaper-"The Glasgow Citizen." Up to this point there was nothing extraordinary in the career or character of David Gray. Taken at his best, he was an average specimen of the persevering young Scottish student. But his soul contained wells of emotion which had not yet been stirred to their depths. When, at fourteen years of age, he began to study in Glasgow, it was his custom to go home every Saturday night F |