The Evergreen

tifying by a certain restlessness in her hands a vehement desire to shake her matronly fist at her son-in law. "Oh! I'm very much obliged to you!"

"Grateful soul!" cried the dwarf. "Mrs. Quilp." "Yes, Quilp," said the timid sufferer.

"Help your mother to get breakfast, Mrs. Quilp. I am going to the wharf this morning—the earlier, the better-so be quick."

Mrs. Jiniwin made a faint demonstration of rebellion by sitting down in a chair near the door, and folding her arms as if in a resolute determination to do nothing. But a few whispered words from her daughter, and a kind inquiry from her son-in-law whether she felt faint, with a hint that there was abundance of cold water in the next apartment, routed these symptoms effectually, and she applied herself to the prescribed preparations with sullen diligence.

While they were in progress, Mr. Quilp withdrew to the adjoining room, and turning back his coat-collar, proceeded to smear his countenance with a damp towel of very unwholesome appearance, which made his complexion rather more cloudy than it was before. But while he was thus engaged, his caution and inquisitiveness did not forsake him, for with a face as sharp and cunning as ever he often stopped, even in this short process, and stood listening for any conversation in the next room, of which he might be the theme. "Ah!" he said after a short effort of attention, "it was not the towel over my ears, I thought it was n't. I'm a little hunchy villain and a monster, am I, Mrs. Jiniwin? Oh!"

The pleasure of this discovery called up the old doglike smile in full force. When he had quite done with it, he shook himself in a very dog-like manner, and rejoined the ladies. Mr. Quilp now walked up to the front of the looking-glass, and was standing, putting on his neckerchief, when Mrs. Jiniwin, happening to be behind him, could not resist the inclination she felt to shake her fist at her tyrant son-in-law. It was the gesture of an instant, but as she did so and accompanied the action with a menacing look, she met his eye in the glass, catching her in the very act. The same glance at the mirror conveyed to her the reflection of a horribly grotesque and distorted face with the tongue lolling out; and the next instant the dwarf, turning about with a perfectly bland and placid look, inquired in a tone of great affection,

How are you now, my dear old darling?" Slight and ridiculous as the incident was, it made him appear such a little fiend, and withal such a keen and knowing one, that the old woman felt too much afraid of him to utter a single word, and suffered herself to be led with extraordinary politeness to the breakfast table. Here he by no means diminished the impression he had just produced, for he ate hard eggs, shell and all, devoured gigantic prawns with the heads and tails on, chewed tobacco and water-cresses at the same time and with extraordinary greediness, drank boiling tea without winking, bit his fork and spoon till they bent again, and in short performed so many horrifying and uncommon acts that the women were nearly frightened out of their wits, and began to doubt if he were really a human creature. At last, having gone through these proceedings and many others which were equally a part of his system, Mr. Quilp left them, reduced to a very obedient and humble state, and betook himself to the river side, where he took boat for the wharf on which he had bestowed his name.

It was flood tide when Daniel Quilp sat himself down in the wherry to cross to the opposite shore. A fleet of barges were coming lazily on, some sideways, some head first, some stern first; all in a wrong-headed, dogged, obstinate way, bumping up against the larger craft, running under the bows of steamboats, getting into every kind of nook and corner where they had no business, and being crunched on all sides like so many walnut shells; while each with its pair of long sweeps strug ling and splashing in the water looked like some lumbering fish in pain. In some of the vessels at anchor all hands were busily engaged in coiling ropes, spreading out sails to dry, taking in or discharging their cargoes; in others no life was visible but two or three tarry boys, and perhaps a barking dog running to and fro upon the deck or scrambling up to look over the side and bark the louder for the view. Coming slowly on through the forests of masts was a great steam ship, beating the water in short, impatient strokes with her heavy paddles as though she wanted room to breathe, and advancing in her huge bulk like a sea monster among the minnows of the

Thames.

ing in the sun, and creaking noise on board, reechoed from a hundred quarters. The water and all upon it was in active motion, dancing and buoyant and bubbling up; while the old grey Tower and piles of building on the shore, with many a church-spire shooting up between, looked coldly on, and seemed to disdain their chafing, restless neighbor.

Daniel Quilp, who was not much affected by a bright morning, save in so far as it spared him the trouble of carrying an umbrella, caused himself to be put ashore hard by the wharf, and proceeded thither through a narrow lane which, partaking of the amphibious character of its frequenters, had as much water as mud in its composition, and a very liberal sup ply of each. Arrived at his destination, the first object that presented itself to his view was a pair of very imperfectly shed feet, elevated in the air with the soles upwards, which remarkable appearance was referable to the boy, who being of an eccentric spirit, and having a natural taste for tumbling, was now standing on his head and contemplating the aspect of the river under these uncommon circumstances. He was put on his heels by the sound of his master's voice, and as soon as his head was in his right position, Mr. Quilp, to speak ex pressively in the absence of a better verb, "punched it" for him.

"Come, you let me alone," said the boy, parrying Quilp's hand with both his elbows alternately. "You'll get something you won't like if you don't, and so I tell you.' "You dog," snarled Quilp, "I'll beat you with an iron rod, I'll scratch you with a rusty nail, I'll pinch your eyes, if you talk to me—I will."

With these threats he clenched his hand again, and dexterously diving in between the elbows and catching the boy's head as it dodged from side to side, gave it three or four good hard knocks. Having now carried his point and insisted on it, he left off.

You won't do it again," said the boy, nodding his head and drawing back, with the elbows ready in case of the worst; "Stand still, you dog," said Quilp. "I won't do it again, because I've done it as often as I want. Here. Take the key." Why don't you hit one of your size?" said the boy approaching very slowly.

"Where is there one of my size, you dog?" returned Quilp. "Take the key, or I'll brain you with it"-indeed he gave him a smart tap with the handle as he spoke. "Now open the counting-house."

The boy sulkily complied, muttering at first, but desisting when he looked round and saw that Quilp was following him with a steady look. And here it may be remarked, that between this boy and the dwarf there existed a strange kind of mutual liking. How born or bred, or how nourished upon blows and threats on one side, and retorts and defiances on the other, is not to the purpose. Quilp would certainly suffer nobody to contradict him but the boy, and the boy would assuredly not have submitted to be so knocked about by anybody but Quilp, when he had the power to run away at any time he chose.

"Now," said Quilp, passing into the wooden countinghouse, "you mind the wharf. Stand upon your head again, and I'll cut one of your feet off."

The boy made no answer, but directly Quilp had shut himself in, stood on his head before the door, then walked on his hands to the back and stood on his head there, and then to the opposite side and repeated the performance. There were indeed four sides to the counting-house, but he avoided that one where the window was, deeming it probable that Quilp would be looking out of it. This was prudent, for in point of fact the dwarf, knowing his disposition, was lying in wait at a little distance from the sash armed with a large piece of wood, which, being rough and jagged and studded in many parts with broken nails, might possibly have hurt him.

It was a dirty little box, this counting-house, with nothing in it but an old ricketty desk and two stools, a hat-peg, an ancient almanack, an inkstand with no ink and the stump of one pen, and an eight-day clock which had n't gone for eighteen years at least and of which the minute-hand had been twisted off for a tooth-pick. Daniel Quilp pulled his hat over his brows, climbed on to the desk (which had a flat top,) and stretching his short length upon it, went to sleep with the ease of an old practitioner; intending, no doubt, to compensate himself for the deprivation of last night's rest, by a long and

On either hand were long black tiers of colliers; between them vessels slowly working out of harbor with sails glisten-sound nap.

Sound it might have been, but long it was not, for he had not been asleep a quarter of an hour when the boy opened the door and thrust in his head, which was like a bundle of badly-picked oakum. Quilp was a light sleeper and started up directly.

"Here's somebody for you," said the boy. "Who?"

"I don't know."

"Ask!" said Quilp, seizing the trifle of wood before mentioned and throwing it at him with such dexterity that it was well the boy disappeared before it reached the spot on which he had stood. "Ask, you deg."

Not caring to venture within range of such missiles again, the boy discreetly sent in his stead the first cause of the interruption, who now presented herself at the door.

What, Nelly?" cried Quilp.

GLENCOE:

OR, THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS.

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

BY THOMAS NOON TALFOURD, AUTHOR OF 'ION.'

PREFACE.

"Yes," said the child, hesitating whether to enter or retreat, for the dwarf just roused, with his disheveled haired as too shocking for dramatic effect, unless presented merely in the hanging all about him and a yellow handkerchief over his head, was something fearful to behold; "it's only me, sir." "Come in," said Quilp, without getting off the desk. "Come in. Stay. Just look into the yard, and see whether there's a boy standing on his head."

"No sir," replied Nell. "He 's on his feet." "You're sure he is ?" said Quilp. "Well. Now, come in and shut the door. What's your message, Nelly?"

The child handed him a letter; Mr. Quilp, without changing his position further than to turn over a little more on his side and rest his chin on his hand, proceeded to make himself acquainted with its contents.

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

BY JAMES ALDRICH.

In beauty lingers on the hills
The death-smile of the dying day;
And twilight in my heart instils

The softness of its rosy ray.
I watch the river's peaceful flow,
Here, standing by my mother's grave,
And feel my dreams of glory go,

Like weeds upon its sluggish wave.
God gives us ministers of love,

Which we regard not, being near;
Death takes them from us, then we feel
That angels have been with us here!
As mother, sister, friend, or wife,

They guide us, cheer us, soothe our pain;
And, when the grave has closed between

Our hearts and theirs, we love-in vain!
Would, MOTHER! thou couldst hear me tell
How oft, amid my brief career,
For sins and follies loved too well,

Hath fallen the free repentant tear!
And, in the waywardness of youth,

How better thoughts have given to me
Contempt for error, love for truth,

'Mid sweet remembrances of thee!

The harvest of my youth is done,

And manhood, come with all its cares,

Finds, garnered up within my heart,

For every flower a thousand tares.

Dear MOTHER! couldst thou know my thoughts
While bending o'er this holy shrine,
The depth of feeling in my breast,

Thou wouldst not blush to call me thine!

It is singular that the terrible incident which deepens the impression made on all tourists by the most awful pass of the Highlands, should not have been long ago made the subject of poetry or romance. Although the massacre which casts so deep a stain on the government of King William the Third, may well have been regardremote back-ground of scenic action, it is surely matter of surprise that it should not have been selected as a subject for Scottish romance by the great novelist who has held up its authors to just execration in his "History of Scotland." A deed so atrocious, perpetrated towards the close of the seventeenth century, under the sanction of a warrant, both superscribed and subscribed by the king, is an instance of that pr. jection of the savage state into a period of growing civilization which ennables the novelist to blend the familiar with the fearful"new manners" with "the pomp ofelder days"-the fading superstition of dim antiquity with the realities which history verifies. To him, the treachery by which it was preceded-the mixture of ferocity and craft by which it was planned and executed-the fearful contrast be tween the gay reciprocation of social kindness, and the deadly purpose of the guests marking out their hosts for slaughter-present opportunities for the most picturesque contrasts, the most vivid details, the most thrilling suggestions, which are not within the province of the dramatist. The catastrophe has also a far-reaching interest, as showing the extermination of one of the most sturdy and austere, although one of the smallest, of the Highland claus; for, being the most fearful of the series of measures by which the little sovereignties of the Highland Chiefs were abolished, it may well represent their general extinction, and the transfer of the virtues and the violence they sheltered from action to memory. It occurred in a scene, too, which, for gloomy grandeur, is not only unequalled, but unapproachedperhaps unresembled-by any other pass in Britain; and its solemn features, especially when contemplated beneath heavy clouds and amidst rolling mists, harmonize with the story of the horrors which were wrought among them. Considering, therefore, the delight which Sir Walter Scott felt in animating the noblest scenery of his country with its most romantic traditions, it is difficult to account for his abstinence from a theme which, if adopted by him, would have been for ever sacred from the touch of others.*

ADVICE.-Always mind your dots in writing. A Maine congressman, on arriving at Washington, wrote to his wife that he had "formed a connexion with a very agreeable Mess and expected to spend the winter very pleasantly." Unfortunately, and greatly to the surprise and mortification of his good lady, he inadvertently dotted the word Mess. This circumstance came well nigh severing two fond hearts. Only think of it.

In endeavoring to present, in a dramatic form, the feelings which the scene and its history have engendered, it has been found necessa sary to place in the foreground domestic incidents and fictitious characters; only to exhibit the chief agents of the treachery, so far as essential to the progress of the action; and to allow the catastrophe itself rather to be felt as affecting the fortunes of an individual family than exhibited in its extended horrors. The subject presents strong temptation to mere melo-dramatic effect: it has been the wish of the author to resist these as much as possible; but he can scarcely hope with entire success.

In the outline of those incidents, which are historical, the author

* Two passages only, as far as the author is aware, in the poetry and fiction of Sir Walter Scott contain allusion to the massacre at Glencoe; but they show how intensely he felt the atrocities committed under the apparent sanction at least of the government of king William. The following stanzas are quoted by himself from his own poems, in a note to his history:

"The hand that mingled in the meal,
At mignight drew the felon steel,

And gave the host's kind breast to feel

Meed for his hospitality!

The friendly hearth which warm'd that hand,
At midnight arm'd it with the brand
That bade destruction's flames expand
Their red and fearful blazonry.

"Then woman's shriek was heard in vain ;
Nor infancy's unpitied pain,

More than the warrior's groan, could gain

Respite from ruthless butchery!
The winter wind that whistled shrill,
The snows that night that cloak'd the hill,
Though wild and pitiless, had still

Far more than Southern clemency."

The following passage occurs in the tale of the "Highland Widow," in Elspat's remonstrance to her son on his enlistment:-"Go, put your head under the belt of one of the race of Dermid, whose children murdered-yes," she added, with a wild shriek, " murdered your mother's fathers in their peaceful dwellings in Glencoe!Yes," she again exclaimed with a wilder and shriller scream, "I wa of my mother;-well I remember her words! They came in peace then unborn, but my mother has told me; and I attended to the voice and were received in friendship; and blood and fire arose, and screams and murder!"

"Mother," answered Hamish, mournfully, but with a decided tone, Glencoe on the noble hand of Barcaldine;-with the unhappy house "all that I have thought over-there is not a drop of the blood of of Glenlyon the curse remains, and on them God hath avenged it."

has not ventured on any material deviation from the story, as related in the fifty-eighth chapter of Sir Walter Scott's "History of Scotland," where it will be found developed with all the vividness of that master-spirit of narrative. The rash irresolution of Mac Ian, in deferring his submission till the last moment; his journey to Fort William in the snow-storm; his disappointment in finding he had sought the wrong officer; his turning thence, and passing near his own house, to Inverary, where he arrived after the appointed day; the acceptance of his oath by the sheriff of Argyle, and his return to enforce the allegiance of his clan to King William; the arrival of Glenlyon and his soldiers in the glen; their entertainment for fifteen days by the Macdonalds; the cold hypocricy by which they veiled their purpose when urged to its execution by Major Duncanson; and the partial execution of the murderous orders; are all real features of "an ower true tale." The only deviations of which the author is conscious are, the representing Alaster Macdonald, the younger son of Mac Ian, as a lad, instead of the husband of Glenlyon's niece; and that niece as fostered by the widow and son of a chief of the clau, once the rival of Mac Ian; and in substituting, for the foul traits of treachery which Sir Walter Scott imputes to Glenlyon, the incident of his procuring a young officer in his own regiment, but of the clan of the Macdonalds, te place the soldiers in the tracks leading from the valley they were commanded to surround. The character of Halbert Macdonald, and the incidents of his story and conduct, are entirely fictitious.

As the chief interest which the author can hope that any will find in perusing this drama, will consist in its bringing to their minds the Features of the stupendous glen to which it refers, he may be permitted to state, that the spot where the tower and chapel of Halbert are supposed to be placed, is beneath the Mountain summit called the Pap of Glencoe; towards which a huge gully leads, or seems to lead, from the bed of the river, and where, enclosed amidst the black rocks, in the darkness of which that gully is lost, far above the glen may be the site of such a rude dwelling. The house of Mac Ian is supposed to be-where, no doubt, it was-in the lower and wider part of the glen, where, by the side of the Cona, the wild myrtle grows in great profusion, about two miles to the south-east of Loch Leven. In other respects, as far as vivid impressions, not verified for some time, enabled the author, he has endeavored to recall to the recollection of those who have visited Glencoe the subsisting features of its scenery; although he cannot place implicit confidence in those impressions, when he finds a writer like Pennant asserting of the glen, that "its mountains rise on each side perpendicularly to a great hight from a flat narrow bottom; so that, in many places, they seem to hang over,and make approaches as they aspire toward each other." To his memory, Glencoe seems not a narrow defile, as this description would import, but a huge valley between mountains of rock, receding from each other till a field of air several miles breadth lies between their summits: of which, the last time he saw it, three young eagles, rising from the coarse heather at the head of the pass, near King's-house, took and kept delighted possession.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MAC IAN, Chief of the Clan of the Macdonalds of Glencoe.
JOHN MACDONALD, Eldest Son of Mac Ian.

ALASTER MACDONALD, Youngest Son of Mac Ian-a youth.

HALBERT MACDONALD, Nephew of Mac Ian-Son of a deceased Chief.
HENRY MACDONALD, Younger Brother of Halbert.

ANGUS and DONALD, Old Men of the Clan of the Macdonalds of
Glencoe.

CAPT. ROBERT CAMPBELL of Glenlyon, commonly called GLENLYON,
Captain of a detachment of the Earl of Argyle's Regiment.

LINDSAY, an Officer under Glenlyon's command.

DRUMMOND, a Sergeant in the Regiment.

KENNETH, an Old Servant of Mac Ian.

A CATHOLIC PRIEST.

LADY MACDONALD, Mother of Halbert and Henry.

HELEN CAMPBELL, an Orphan, protected by Lady Macdonald, Niece to Glenlyon.

Clansmen, Officers, Soldiers, &c.

SCENE-Glencoe, and the neighboring banks of Loch Leven.
TIME-January, 1689.

The first Two Acts occupy one night and the following morning.— There is an interval of a fortnight between the action of the Second and Third Acts;-the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Acts comprise the action of the three succeeding days.

ACT I.

SCENEI.... The Hall in the House of MAC IAN in Glencoe.
Midnight.-A turf fire burning.-Storm heard without.—
JOHN MACDONALD discovered sitting pensively at a table;
ALASTER pacing the room.

JOHN. Let me entreat you, Alaster, to sleep;

Three nights of feverish waking, at your age,
May spoil you for a watchman; for your nerves,
Undisciplined by care, throb many hours,
While those of elder and sedater spirits,

Ruled by the time, count one. Rest those slight limbs
On yonder couch of heather; I will pledge
My word to rouse you at the first faint tread

Which may announce your father; but 't were needless
In deepest slumber it will stir your heart,
And rouse you to his arms.

ALAS.

How can I sleep?

How can you wish that I should sleep, when night
Succeeds to night, and still the unconquer'd wind,
Laden with snow and hailstones, dashes round us,

As if in scorn of Highlanders, content
To yield the fastnesses in which it held
Joint empire with our sires; and still the fear
That it hath dealt its vengeance on the head
We love increases-with the time o'erpast
For sad and shameful travel?

JOHN.

Alaster,

I must not hear you blend those words with aught
Our sire resolved. You did not guess the war
Of fierce emotions that, within his frame
Unshaken, raged, as time brought nigh the hour
When he must plight his faith to England's King,
Or to the power of unrelenting foes

Yield up his clansmen. While the sky was clear,
With wavering purpose he inclined to wait

His doom at home; but when the snow-storm hurled
Its icy arrows through the hills, the woes
Of roofless desolation all would share
Shrieked at his heart, and peril lent a show
Of honor to the journey, which had else
Seemed shameful;-so he girt him to the task
As to a doomed man's office. If we lose
All else, we will preserve our household laws;
Nor let the license of these fickle times
Subvert the holy shelter which command
Of fathers, and undoubting faith of sons,
Reared for our shivering virtues. You o'erstep
The province of a Highland chieftain's son;
You must not judge your father.
It is true,
ALAS.
And I submit me to your chiding: still
'T is hard to own new tyranny; to shrink
Before its threats; to feel the Highland heart
Shrivel and die within its case, nor strike
One blow for ancient sovereignty and honor.
JOHN. I grant that it is hard; but if the blow
Be without hope, 't is nobler to forbear,
Nor buy a glorious moment with the blood
Of trusting clansmen. Would you know what virtue
Endurance may possess, when action fails,
Look at our cousin Halbert!-To your eye,
Whose memory reaches not his fiery boyhood,
He seems distinguished only by that charm
Of courtesy which hearted kindness sheds
Through simplest manners, and an aspect grave
Which these huge rocks impress upon the port
Of him who loves them. You have often seen
Our father to his greeting make return

Of gibe or withering silence, which he bears
In gentlest mood; yet once his soul was passioned
With wilder rage than even your ardent youth
Can guess; but I err now; for I o'erstep
An old injunction not to tell his story,
Till manhood fitted you to hear it.

ALAS.

Manhood!
JOHN. I did not mean to ruffle you. Your years,
Though few, have been instructed by distress,
And I admit your title to the cares
And knowledge happier fortunes had deferred.
Sit, then, and listen. Halbert's father long
With ours contested who might claim descent
From eldest line of ancestry, and right
To chieftainship and lands. Fierce conflicts held
The claim in doubt, till old Macdonald fell
Stricken for death; then, conscious that his sons,
Halbert, the eldest-born, about your age,
And Henry, a slight stripling, scarcely twelve,
Could ill sustain the quarrel, or protect
Their mother in her sorrow, sent the priest
Who shrived him, to entreat his rival's hand
In peace-with offer to resign his claims:
So that the blackened tower in which he lay,
Its ruined chapel, the small niche of rock
In which they are embraced as in a chasm
Rent 'neath our loftiest peak by ancient storm,
And some scant pastures on Loch Leven's side,
Were ratified as Halbert's. To this pact
I was a witness, and the scene lives now
Before me. In a room where flickering light
Strove through the narrow openings of huge walls,
On a low couch, Macdonald's massive form
Lay stretched; with folded arms my father stood
Awed by the weakness of the foe so late

His equal; the expiring warrior raised
His head, and catching from the eager looks
Of the wan lady who had wiped the dew
Of anguish from his forehead, argument
To quell all scruple, solemnly rehearsed
The terms, and, as his dying prayer, implored
Halbert to keep them.

ALAS. JOHN.

So he yielded?

No;
One flush of crimson from the hair which curled
Crisply around his brows, suffused his face

And throat outspread with rage. He slowly raised
His dirk; and, though the agony which swelled
His heaving breast prevented speech, we read
In his dilated nostril, eyes that flashed
With fire that answered to the uplifted steel,
And lips wide-parted for the sounds which strove
In vain to reach their avenue, a vow
Of never-resting warfare: so he stood
Rigid as marble, of his mother's face

Turned on him from her knees-of the wild fear
Which struck his gamesome brother sad-of all
Unconscious. While we waited for his words,
Another voice, from the deep shade that gloomed
Beyond the death-bed, came; and midst it, stood
The squalid figure of a woman, wrought
Beyond the natural stature as she stretched
Her withered finger towards the youth, and spoke-
"Halbert, obey! The hour which sees thee rule
O'er the Macdonalds of Glencoe shall bring
Terror and death."-Then glided from the room.
He did not start, but as his ears drank in
The sounds, his color vanished from his face;
The light forsook his eyes; his nerveless hand
Released the dirk; he sank on trembling knees,
Beside the couch, and with a child's soft voice
Said, "I obey"-and bowed his head to take
His father's blessing, who fell back and died
When he had murmured it. The youth arose
Sedate, and turning to his mother, said,
"I live for you." Since then he has remained
What you have known him.

ALAS.

What was she who wrought

Have you not heard of Moina? Although she has not since that day been seen Within our vale, her awful figure glared

On the remotest infancy of men

Who now are reckoned old. Her age alone Would make the obscurest thread of human life

Drawn out, though many births and deaths of Hope,
A thing to tremble at. T is said she gazed
On that best piece of heavenly workmanship-
Our Mary's beauty, when the shrivelled Queen
Of England foully shattered it; some crime
Or mighty sorrow now forgotten, drew
Her steps into deep solitude. Preserved
By her majestic bearing from the grasp
Of law, she owns the power to pierce the veil
Of mortal vision; the sole tie she knows
To this world is a kindred with our race,
From which she sprung. Yet only giant griefs
Borne or foreshadowed have the power to stir
Her dull affections, or to invite her steps
From the rude hovel where she dwells alone
Far on the mountain plain, within the round
Of stones which point Death's ancient victories
O'er nameless heroes. Whether earnest thought
And long communion with the hills whose moan
Foretells the tempest, taught her first to break
The bondage of the present, or worse aid
Hath given her might, I cannot tell; pray Heaven
That you may never cross her!
ALAS.

Her strange words
Fell lightly on the younger son, whose acts
Of boyish prowess wrought in frolic mood
I once admired; has any thing been heard
Of that gay scapegrace?

JOHN.

No; he could not brook The dullness of his home, though not uncheered By female grace; for there the lovely child Of brave Hugh Campbell, whom Macdonald loved, Spite of the hatred that he bore his clan,

HAL.

Enter KENNETH.

Swift to the bridge; it may be yours to save
Your chief.

[Exit KENNETH.] His journey will not lie that way, Yet horrors thicken round us. 'Mid the roar, Methinks I hear a step-it comes-alas! 'Tis not Mac Ian's.

Enter HALBERT MACDONALD.
Halbert, I've scarce

The power to bid you welcome as I ought:
We are sad watchers for our sire's return,
And almost blame the footsteps of a friend
Which might be his.

I came to ask of him;
For having crossed him on Loch Leven's shore
Three nights ago, scarce two miles hence, I heard
With wonder the report which found its way

To our lone dwelling but to-night, that still
He was abroad.

ALAS.

HAL

Are you assured 't was he? Did he address you?

Alaster, you know How rarely he will grace me with a word; But this is not a season for a thought, Save of his peril. I had made my way, Breasting the hurricane, in hope to lead Our herd to shelter ere the night should add Dark terrors to the storm: in blackening mist I saw a mantle flicker; then the hairs

Of a white head, which stream'd along the wave
Of flying vapor; swift I ran to aid

Some aged wanderer's steps, and cried aloud.
He fled before me, till

fleeter limbs

O'ertook him; then he faced me;-'t was your father! A look, in which strong anguish baffled scorn,

He fixed upon me; waved his arm aloft,

In action that forbade pursuit, and took
The pathway to Loch Etive. I believed
He wish'd but to avoid me, and that done,
He would turn homeward.

ALAS.

HAL.

If indeed 't was he
And not a dreadful shadow of his mould,
He fears to meet the faces of his friends
After his oath to William.

If he lives,
That oath is past; and being past, dear cousin,
Let it not prompt a word which may add pangs
To a brave spirit's shame. At earliest dawn
I'll search each caverned nook within our glen,
Nor leave a crevice which the smallest rill
Has hollowed, unexplored. I know them well:
So haply I may find the reverend chief
Crouched in some narrow cave,-his stately head
In resignation bowed upon his staff,

And waiting, without struggle, the last chill
Of slowly freezing death;-may lead him home,
And win one cordial pressure of his hand,
To speak he owns me true.

Is all then past?

was the task, the way

When through deep snow

MAC IAN. It is; and sad as
Was worthy of its end.
I reached Fort William, nerved to take the oath
Before the General-I was told his office
Did not allow him to record it: thence

I was compelled to struggle through the storm

To Inverary, where the Sheriff deigned,
Although beyond the appointed time, to seal
The degradation of our race. I passed
Within two miles of this beloved home,
And dared not turn to it.

HAL. [speaking to ANGUS behind]. 'T was there I met him.
MACIAN. Who spoke? Is he who tracked me in the storm
Come as a spy, upon my sad return,

MAC IAN. Here?—I must face them ;-tell them to approach. [MAC IAN takes his seat;-JOHN beckons the Old Clansmen, who surround it.]

I have cold welcome for you, friends; you come
To share the wreck of the Macdonalds. I,
The most unhappy of the race, have been

To make the final sacrifice. I felt

Resistance, with our deaths, would glut the hate
Of Scottish minions bribed by England's gold;
And I have sworn-relate it for me, John,
I cannot tell it!

JOHN.
To secure your lives
My father periled his;-and yesternight,
At Inverary, pledged our faith to William.
Enter KENNETH wildly.

KEN. Too late! too late!
HAL.

Is all his anguish vain?
KEN. [seeing MAC IAN].

HAL.

What mean those awful words?

No, he is safe!

Why start ye?-though the bridge is swept away, Our chief's unharmed.

And thus you welcome him,

With words which freeze the soul! You meant no ill;
Yet death is in your words.

KEN. [kneeling to MAC IAN]. Forgive me.

MAC IAN.

I'm armed for any ill, unless it fall On these, my life's last comforts.

HAL.

No; he came

To gaze upon my sorrow? Let him face me! HAL. [coming forward.] I came not to offend you. Јони.

In terror for your safety. MAC IAN.

HAL.

Said he so?

Nay, Halbert, look yourself; scant powers are left
To grace the seat you wait for, yet my son
Shall fill it after me. Declare your wish

To rend it from us; 't were a nobler course
Than that you follow.

Sir, you do me wrong;
I boast no virtue when I claim content
With that which you have left me: would not change
My naked turret, in its mountain hold,
Reached by the path along whose rugged steeps
Discord and envy climb not, for the fields
Rich Inverary in its scornful groves

Embosoms; and to me the mouldering walls
Of its small chapel wear the glory yet

Forgive me, sir:

Of consecration which they took from prayers
Of the first teachers, though a thousand storms
Have drenched and shaken them.
I have a patrimony which forbids
Envy of yours.

MAC IAN.

HAL.

You hear-he taunts me now;
Do you believe that show of meekness cheats
A soldier's eye ?-that we esteem your thoughts
Subdued to habits of a herdsman's life,

And all the passion and the pride of youth
In these o'ercome?

I strive to conquer them,
And not in vain. You think that strange. If day
Illumed the glen, I 'd show you, from your door,
A shapeless rock, which, thence observed, presents
No mark to give it preference o'er the mass
Of mountain ruin ;-yet from upward gaze
Of the slow traveller, as he drags his steps
Through yon dark pass, it shuts the mighty gorge
Above with all its buttresses; its lake,
Black with huge shadows; and its jagged heights,
Which tempt the arrowy lightning from its track
To sport with kindred terrors. So, by grace
Of Heaven, each common object we regard
With steadiness, can-veil the dark abodes
Of terrible Remembrance at whose side
Fierce Passions slumber, and supply to Hope

Rise;

[Looking on JOHN and ALASTER.]
Sir, farewell!

When peril comes-as come it will-regard
The meanest clansman's life less cheap than his
Whose loyalty you wrong.

[Exit HALBERT.]

MAC IAN [to the Clansmen]. Good night, my friends.
[Exeunt KENNETH and Clansmen.]

Come near me, children; I can scarcely bear
To look into your faces. You forgive me?

JOHN. Forgive! We honor and revere you. Bless us!
[JOHN and ALASTER kneel, one on each side of MAC IAN'S
chair. He lays his hands on their heads.]

MAC IAN. There; we are knotted now to live or die. [The Drop Scene falls.]

END OF ACT 1.

ACT II.

SCENE I..... The Hall of HALBERT's Tower. TimeDaybreak.

Enter LADY MACDONALD with a Letter, followed by DRUM-
MOND, in the uniform of the Earl of Argyle's Regiment.
LADY M. Thanks for your pains. Let me devour again

The precious characters. [Reads.] "I come, dear mother,
Raised to high favor and command, to take

My quarters in your vale." The morn's faint light
Had scarce enabled eyes less glad than mine

To read; they are dazzled now. [To the SOLDIER.]
Pray you go in:

We have poor entertainment to bestow,

But our best cheer is yours.

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The Evergreen, Volumen1