HIGHLAND MARY.

Glasgow.—Visit to Ayr.—Story of Highland Mary.—Glasgow to Edinburgh.—Scene in Edinburgh at Night.—The Castle.—Melrose.—Long Summer Days.

OLD Glasgow, almost encircled by hills and uplands, presents a picturesque view, as the steamer moves slowly up the narrowing channel of the Clyde. But with its rapid commercial growth, its 2,000,000 spindles, its steam-power, and its busy marts of trade, it is a city of the present rather than the past, and beyond the Knox monument and the Cathedral presents few attractions to the history-loving stranger.

Our tourists stopped at Glasgow to make a day’s excursion to the home of Burns. They were taken from the boat to the Queen’s Hotel in George’s Square; but George Howe and Leander Towle after resting with the rest of the party, secured lodgings in a private house.

The boys arose the next morning, with dreams of the Doon and Ayr. To their disappointment, a heavy mist hung over the city; and they found it a dreary and disappointing walk to the South Side Station, where they were to take the train for Ayr. The two hours’ ride on the train was as colorless; they were whirled through a novel and beautiful summer landscape, but Nature had dropped her sea-curtain and sky-curtain of fog and mist over all.

When the party arrived at Ayr, it was raining. The boys’ faces, too, were cloudy, and each one pressed Master Lewis with the question, “What shall we do?”

Tommy Toby at last answered the rather embarrassing question with, “Let us consult the barometer.”

The boys consult the barometer

The barometer, too, wore a cloudy face, and frowned at them, as though it meant never to predict fine weather again.

But, after waiting awhile at the station, there were signs of lifting clouds and clearing skies. A weather-wise old Scotchman promised the party a fair day, and bid them “God speed” for the home of “Robbie Burns.” Presently, the sun began to shoot his lances through the mist, and the tourists set out for their first walk, which was to be a two-mile one, to Burns’s cottage.

The boys walk towards the cottage

BIRTHPLACE OF ROBERT BURNS.

The cottage was indeed an humble one. It was built by the father of Burns, with his own hands, before his marriage, and originally contained two rooms.

In the interior of the kitchen, a Scotchwoman showed to the party a recess where

“The bard peasant first drew breath.”

The simplicity of the place and its ennobling associations seemed to touch all except Tommy, who remarked to Frank Gray,—

“I was born in a better room than that myself.”

“But I fear you never will be called to sing the songs of a nation.”

“I fear I never shall,” said Tommy, meekly.

From the cottage, the party went to the Burns monument.

From the base of its columns, the beauties of Scottish scenery began to appear.

“It is the way in which one ends life that honors the place of one’s birth,” said Frank to Tommy.

“So I see,” said Tommy, as the sun came out and covered the beautiful monument, and illuminated the record of the poet’s fame.

The tourists, under the direction of a Scottish farmer, whose acquaintance Master Lewis had made, next proceeded to an eminence commanding a view of the mansion house of Coilsfield, the romance-haunting Castle of Montgomery.

“There,” said the Scotchman, “lived Burns’s first sweetheart.”

“Highland Mary?” asked several voices.

“Yes.”

“They were separated by death,” said Master Lewis. “Can you tell us the story?”

“As Mary was expecting soon to be wedded to Burns, she went to visit her kin in Argyleshire. She met Burns for the last time on a Sunday in May. It was a lovely day, and standing one on the one side and one on the other of a small brook, and holding a Bible between them, they promised to be true to each other for ever.

“On the journey, Mary fell sick and died. You have read Burns’s lines ‘To Mary in Heaven’?”

That sacred hour can I forget?Can I forget the hallowed grove,Where by the winding Ayr we met,To live one day of parting love?Eternity will not effaceThose records dear of transports past;Thy image at our last embrace!Ah! little thought we ’twas our last!

“Do you ever sing the songs of Burns?” asked Master Lewis.

“Would you like to hear me try ‘Highland Mary’?”

“Do!” said Ernest Wynn, who was always affected by ballad music.

The Scotchman quoted a line or two of the poem, changing from the English to the Scottish accent. The boys were charmed with the words, and sat down on the grass to listen to

Ye banks and braes and streams aroundThe castle o’ Montgomery,Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,Your waters never drumlie!There simmer first unfauld her robes,And there the langest tarry;For there I took the last fareweelO’ my sweet Highland Mary.How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,How rich the hawthorn’s blossom,As underneath their fragrant shadeI clasped her to my bosom!The golden hours, on angel wings,Flew o’er me and my dearie;For dear to me as light and lifeWas my sweet Highland Mary.Wi’ monie a vow, and locked embrace,Our parting was fu’ tender;And, pledging aft to meet again,We tore oursels asunder:But, oh! fell death’s untimely frostThat nipt my flower sae early!Now green ’s the sod, and cauld ’s the clay,That wraps my Highland Mary!Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips,I aft hae kissed sae fondly!And closed for aye the sparkling glanceThat dwelt on me sae kindly!And mould’ring now in silent dustThat heart that lo’ed me dearly!But still within my bosom’s coreShall live my Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,How rich the hawthorn’s blossom,As underneath their fragrant shadeI clasped her to my bosom!The golden hours, on angel wings,Flew o’er me and my dearie;For dear to me as light and lifeWas my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi’ monie a vow, and locked embrace,Our parting was fu’ tender;And, pledging aft to meet again,We tore oursels asunder:But, oh! fell death’s untimely frostThat nipt my flower sae early!Now green ’s the sod, and cauld ’s the clay,That wraps my Highland Mary!

Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips,I aft hae kissed sae fondly!And closed for aye the sparkling glanceThat dwelt on me sae kindly!And mould’ring now in silent dustThat heart that lo’ed me dearly!But still within my bosom’s coreShall live my Highland Mary.

The “banks and braes and streams around” gleamed like a vision of enchantment in the full noon sunlight. Never had the boys listened to a song amid such highly romantic associations.

Bidding the entertaining Scotchman farewell, the party returned to Ayr, and thence to Glasgow, where it arrived in the lingering sunlight of the long afternoon.

The next morning it left by rail for Edinburgh, that city of high houses and terraced hills; of grandly picturesque beauty; of the times of Bruce, and the bright and dark days of the Stuarts; where one is surrounded by the relics of a thousand years, and stands under the protecting shadow of a castle that seems lifted into the regions of air.

The party took rooms on Prince’s Street, a thoroughfare one hundred feet wide and a mile in length, graced with noble monuments of art and bowery pleasure-grounds. It is considered one of the most picturesque streets in the world.

Around you are shops with splendid windows, statues, public gardens, birds, and flowers; above you are houses six or eight stories high; above these, on the rocky hillsides, are queer old buildings of other times; and high over all is the Castle, cold and grand on its rocky throne.

“I shall rest to-morrow, boys,” said Master Lewis, “and shall let you roam at will. Let us spend the evening in one of the public gardens.”

After supper, the party went to one of these fragrant street-gardens. The band of the Duchess of Sutherland’s Own, as a certain Highland regiment is called, filled the quiet air with delicious music.

The sun withdrew his light from the street, the gardens, and the tall houses on the hills, but the Castle stood long in the mellowed glory of the sunset.

But the sun left even the Castle at last, and then began a spectacle that seemed like an illusion or fairy-land.

EDINBURGH CASTLE.

Lights began to twinkle in the streets; then in the tall windowsabove them. Now and then a whole face of an antique pile was illuminated; now some little eyrie that seemed hanging in air burst into flame; now a line of terraces began to twinkle. The lights crept up the hillsides everywhere.

“I never saw any thing so beautiful!” said Ernest Wynn.

Every one talks of the Castle in Edinburgh, and the boys paid their first visit to it, and saw it in its morning glory. On the highest platform of the Castle, three hundred and eighty-three feet above the sea, stands the celebrated old cannon Mons Meg, made in Mons, in Brittany, in 1486. It had figured in so many wars and historic scenes, that the Scottish people came to regard it as a national relic. The site of the Castle is about seven hundred feet in circumference, and on three sides it seems just a bare rock, rising almost perpendicularly in air.

HOLYROOD PALACE.

The boys next visited Arthur’s Seat, a high rock on the top of a hill, in which there is a fancied resemblance to a chair. Queen Victoriaclimbed up to it on a recent visit. It commands a sweeping view of the sea, and the hills that encircle the city.

They next went to the old Palace of Holyrood, and were shown the apartments of the unfortunate Queen of Scots.

“There,” said the tall Scotchman who attended them about the place, “is the room where Rizzio was murdered, in the presence of Mary.”

They were told that a certain stain in the floor was the blood of the hapless man.

A portrait of Mary Stuart

MARY STUART.

“We must ask Master Lewis to tell us the whole story,” said Wyllys.

They next visited St. Giles, the scene of the preaching of Knox, the Martyrs’ Monument, and Knox’s grave.

“We must have an evening meeting of the Club in Edinburgh,” said Wyllys Wynn, when the party with Master Lewis were at tea.

“To-night?” asked Frank.

“I would wait until after we have been to Abbotsford,” said Master Lewis. “Then I would have a meeting in the parlor, and let each one tell some story associated with the most interesting object he has seen.”

Rizzio is ambushed and dragged away from Mary

MURDER OF RIZZIO.

The next day Master Lewis and the tourists, except George and Leander, who preferred remaining in the city, took the train forMelrose, stopped at Melrose Station, and rode to Abbotsford, the reputed haunt of Thomas the Rhymer, and the residence of Walter Scott.

They were met at the entrance of the gray mansion by a tall Scotchman, and were taken from the magnificent entrance hall, about forty feet in length, to the dining-room, which has a wonderful black-oak roof, and is the place where Sir Walter died. Gazing from the window on the beautiful landscape for the last time, he said to Lockhart, “Bring me a book.” “What book?” “There is but one book.”

They were next shown the library, a repository of some twenty thousand books and of presents from most eminent persons, among them a silver urn from Lord Byron and two arm-chairs from the Pope.

Our tourists next visited the ruin of Melrose Abbey, and found it less interesting than its historic associations. Late evening found them again in Edinburgh.

“What time of the evening do you think it is?” asked Master Lewis of the boys as they entered the hotel.

“Seven o’clock,” said Tommy Toby.

“After nine o’clock,” said Master Lewis.

The Castle still stood in the damask light of the twilight, like a dark picture on an illuminated curtain.

“The summer days in these Northern regions are as long as they are beautiful,” said Master Lewis.

Story of Queen Mary and Rizzio.—Story of the Black Douglas.—Story of a Glasgow Factory Boy.—The Castle by Moonlight.

THE following day was to be the last the party were to spend in the beautiful city of Edinburgh. In the evening the Class met as by appointment, and, at the suggestion of Wyllys Wynn, Master Lewis was asked to conduct the exercises of the section of the Club.

“I thank you,” he said, “for this kind confidence, and I think we may congratulate ourselves on the success of our journey thus far. I will begin our conversation by asking Wyllys Wynn what is the most interesting place he has seen in Scotland.”

“The place that has most excited my interest,” said Wyllys, “is the room in the palace where Rizzio was killed. It is not the most interesting place I have seen, of course, but it has most awakened my curiosity.

“Will you not tell us the history of Rizzio?”

“To do so,” said Master Lewis, “would require some account of the whole of Queen Mary’s life. The romance of Queen Mary’s story will have a freshness, after what you have now seen. I will do the best I can to relate those incidents which make up the

“Mary, Queen of Scots, was perhaps the most beautiful in person and winning in manners and polite accomplishments of any modern queen. She was the daughter of James V. of Scotland and Mary of Lorraine. Her father heard of her birth on his death-bed. He had hoped his heir would prove a son.

“‘It came with a lass, and it will end with a lass,’ said he.

“The crown of Scotland came with the daughter of Bruce, and ended with unfortunate Mary.

“Mary became queen before she was a week old. Little she knew, in her innocent cradle at Linlithgow, of the crown waiting her head or the kingdom that was ruled in her name.

“Her childhood was like a fairy story. She had there Marys for playmates, as she herself was named Mary; and each Mary was the daughter of a noble family.

“When six years of age she was given in marriage to Francis II., the son of the French King. The French fleet carried her away from the rugged shores of Scotland, and the Scottish Marys went with her.

“Ten years were passed amid the gayeties and splendors of the French court, and then, at the age of sixteen, she was married, amid great pomp and rejoicings, to the Dauphin, whose courtly devotion and elegant society she had long enjoyed. The associations of the young pair before marriage had been very happy. They delighted to be with each other even in society, when they would often separate themselves from the gay throngs around them.

“The next year found Francis on the throne, and Mary seemed to be the happiest queen in the world.

“But the following year the young king died, childless, and Mary was compelled to return to Scotland.

“She sailed from Calais in the late summer of another changeful year. She wept when the shores of France faded from her sight, and expressed her regret in a tender poem, which you may have read.

Francis II. of France

“Mary was a Catholic. Scotland had adopted the Reformed Faith, and the Scots received her with coldness and suspicion.

“Mary’s life from childhood to her imprisonment was a series of romances associated with marriage schemes. Francis had not been long dead before many of the courts of Europe were planning marriage alliances with the beautiful Queen. The kings of France, Sweden, Denmark, Don Carlos of Spain, the Archduke of Austria, and many others of lesser rank were named as suitable candidates for her hand.

“Her own choice fell upon her handsome cousin, Lord Darnley, who was a Catholic, and among the nearest heirs to the English crown. He was a weak, corrupt, ambitious man. But he had a winning face, and the marriage was celebrated in Holyrood Palace, in the summer of 1565.

“One day, long before this marriage, as Mary was coming down the stairs of the Palace, she saw the graceful form of a dark Italian musician reclining on a piece of carved furniture in the hall. It was her first view of David Rizzio, who had come to Scotland in the train of the embassador from Savoy. In a celebrated picture of Mary, she is represented as starting back in surprise and horror at the sight of this adventurer, as though the moment were one of fate and evil foreboding.

“This fascinating Italian won the confidence of Mary by his arts, and used his influence to bring about the marriage with Darnley. He became a friend of Darnley: they occupied the same apartments and engaged in the same political intrigues.

“But, after the marriage, Rizzio himself drew away the affections of the Queen from Darnley, who determined to assassinate Rizzio. Several Scottish lords united with Darnley to do the deed.

“One day, when Mary had been supping with Rizzio, the white face of Lord Ruthven appeared at the door of the room.

“‘Lethimcome out of the room,’ he said to the Queen.

“‘He shall not leave the room,’ said the Queen; ‘I read his danger in your face.’

“Then Ruthven and his followers rushed upon Rizzio, dragged him from the room, and stabbed him fifty-six times. You have seen the blood-stains in the Palace, where the wily Italian was killed.

“It is said that his body was thrown upon the same chest, at the foot of the stairs, where Mary had seen him first.

“Mary knew that Darnley had caused the murder.

“‘I will now have my revenge,’ she said, in the presence of the conspirators.

“She said to Darnley, ‘I will cause you to have as sorrowful a heart as I have now.’

“For political reasons she, however, became seemingly reconciled to him. Three months after the tragedy, James VI. of Scotland and I. of England was born. You have seen his birthplace to-day.

“Twelve months passed. Earl Bothwell, a profligate noble, had won the Queen’s confidence. There is little doubt that the two formed a plot to destroy Darnley’s life.

“The Queen went to visit Darnley at Glasgow, he having fallen ill. She pretended great affection for him, and brought him to Edinburgh, and secured lodgings for him in a private house. She left him late one Sunday evening, to attend a marriage feast.

“She remarked to him, in one of their last interviews,—

“‘It was about this time, a year ago, I believe, that David was murdered.’

“After she had gone, there was a great explosion, and Darnley’s dead body was found in a neighboring garden.

“Mary had had her revenge.

“Three months after the tragedy she married Bothwell, who had secured a divorce from his young wife to prepare the way for the event.

Mary stands close to Francis

FRANCIS II. AND MARY STUART LOVE-MAKING.

“Scotland rose against Mary. She fled to England, and threw herself on the protection of Elizabeth, abdicating the throne in favor of her son. She was secured as a prisoner, and confined at Carlisle. She was taken from Carlisle to Fotheringhay Castle. She was at last triedfor conspiracy against the life of Elizabeth. Sentence of death was passed upon her. She protested her innocence. You know the rest,—the last tragedy of all, in the Castle of Fotheringhay.

“Bothwell died an exile and a madman, some nine years after his marriage with Mary.

“It is said that it was found, after her execution, that her real hair, under her wig, was as white as that of a woman of seventy. I cannot wonder.

“She had one little friend who remained true to the last. It was her little dog. He followed her to the block, and cowered, frightened, under her dress, at the fatal moment, and lay down beside her headless body when the last tragedy was over. It could not be driven away from its mistress; and when the body was removed it began to droop, as though understanding its loss, and in two days it died.”

“I have spoken at school a poem by Bulwer Lytton, founded on the incident,” said Wyllys.

“Can you now repeat it?” asked Master Lewis.

“I will try.”

The world is full of life and love; the world methinks might spare,From millions, one to watch above the dust of monarchs there.And not one human eye!—yet, lo! what stirs the funeral pall?What sound—it is not human woe wails moaning through the hall.Close by the form mankind desert one thing a vigil keeps;More near and near to that still heart it wistful, wondering, creeps.It gazes on those glazed eyes, it hearkens for a breath;It does not know that kindness dies, and love departs from death.It fawns as fondly as before upon that icy hand,And hears from lips that speak no more the voice that can command.To that poor fool, alone on earth, no matter what had beenThe pomp, the fall, the guilt, the worth, the dead was still a Queen.With eyes that horror could not scare, it watched the senseless clay,Crouched on the breast of death, and there moaned its fond life away.And when the bolts discordant clashed, and human steps drew nigh,The human pity shrank abashed before that faithful eye;It seemed to gaze with such rebuke on those who could forsake,Then turned to watch once more the look, and strive the sleep to wake.They raised the pall, they touched the dead: a cry, and both were stilled,Alike the soul that hate had sped, the life that love had killed.Semir’amis of England,[1]hail! thy crime secures thy sway;But when thine eyes shall scan the tale those hireling scribes convey,When thou shalt read, with late remorse, how one poor slave was foundBeside thy butchered rival’s corse, the headless and discrowned,Shall not thy soul foretell thine own unloved, expiring hour,When those who kneel around the throne shall fly the falling tower?—When thy great heart shall silent break; when thy sad eyes shall strainThrough vacant space, one thing to seek, one thing that loved—in vain?Though round thy parting pangs of pride shall priest and noble crowd,More worth the grief that mourned beside thy victim’s gory shroud!

To that poor fool, alone on earth, no matter what had beenThe pomp, the fall, the guilt, the worth, the dead was still a Queen.With eyes that horror could not scare, it watched the senseless clay,Crouched on the breast of death, and there moaned its fond life away.And when the bolts discordant clashed, and human steps drew nigh,The human pity shrank abashed before that faithful eye;It seemed to gaze with such rebuke on those who could forsake,Then turned to watch once more the look, and strive the sleep to wake.They raised the pall, they touched the dead: a cry, and both were stilled,Alike the soul that hate had sped, the life that love had killed.

Semir’amis of England,[1]hail! thy crime secures thy sway;But when thine eyes shall scan the tale those hireling scribes convey,When thou shalt read, with late remorse, how one poor slave was foundBeside thy butchered rival’s corse, the headless and discrowned,Shall not thy soul foretell thine own unloved, expiring hour,When those who kneel around the throne shall fly the falling tower?—When thy great heart shall silent break; when thy sad eyes shall strainThrough vacant space, one thing to seek, one thing that loved—in vain?Though round thy parting pangs of pride shall priest and noble crowd,More worth the grief that mourned beside thy victim’s gory shroud!

[1]Elizabeth.

Master Lewis continued the general subject of the meeting.

“What, Frank, has been the most interesting object you have seen?”

“The Cannongate. I read its history in the guide-book, and I spent an hour in the place. One could seem in fancy to live there hundreds of years.”

“King James rode through this street on his way to Flodden,” said Master Lewis. “Montrose was dragged here upon a hurdle. It was in a church here that Jenny Geddes bespoke the sentiment of the people by hurling her stool at the head of the Dean, who attempted to enforce the Episcopal service.

“‘I will read the Collect,’ said the Dean.

“‘Colic, said ye? The De’il colic the wame of ye!’

“Here came John Knox, after his interview with Queen Mary, cold and grim, and unmoved by her tears. Here rode the Pretender. Here dwelt the great Dukes of Scotland and the Earls of Moray and Mar.”

Mary and courtiers surround Francis' bed

THE DEATH-BED OF FRANCIS II.

“I wished I were a poet, a painter, or an historian, when I was there,” said Frank. “It is said Sir Walter Scott used to ride thereslowly, and that almost every gable recalled to him some scene of triumph or of bloodshed.”

“I cannot begin to tell you stories of Cannongate,” said Master Lewis. “Such stories would fill volumes, and give a view of the whole of Scottish history. What, Ernest, has impressed you most?”

“The view of Edinburgh at night is the most beautiful sight I have seen. But the charm that Scott’s poetry has given to Melrose Abbey, haunts me still, notwithstanding my disappointment at the ruin. This was the tomb of the Douglases and of the heart of Bruce.”

“I will tell you a story of one of the Douglases, whose castle still stands, not far from Melrose,” said Master Lewis; “a story which I think is one of the most pleasing of the Border Wars. I will call the story

“King Edward I. of England nearly conquered Scotland. They did not have photographs in those days, but had expressive and descriptive names for people of rank, which answered just as well. So Edward was known as ‘Longshanks.’ It was from no lack of spirit or energy that he did not quite complete the stubborn work; but he died a little too soon. On his death-bed he called his pretty, spiritless son to him, and made him promise to carry on the war; he then ordered that his body should be boiled in a caldron, and that his bones should be wrapped up in a bull’s hide, and carried at the head of the army in future campaigns against the Scots. After these and some other queer requests, death relieved him of the hard politics of this world, and so he went away. Then his son, Edward II., tucked away the belligerent old King’s bones among the bones of other old kings in Westminster Abbey, and spent his time in dissipation among his favorites, and allowed the resolute Scots to recover Scotland.

“Good James, Lord Douglas, was a very wise man in his day. He may not have had long shanks, but he had a very long head, as youshall presently see. He was one of the hardest foes with whom the two Edwards had to contend, and his long head proved quite too powerful for the second Edward, who, in his single campaign against the Scots, lost at Bannockburn nearly all that his father had gained.

“The tall Scottish Castle of Roxburgh stood near the border, lifting its grim turrets above the Teviot and the Tweed. When the Black Douglas, as Lord James was called, had recovered castle after castle from the English, he desired to gain this stronghold, and determined to accomplish his wish.

“But he knew it could be taken only by surprise, and a very wily ruse it must be. He had outwitted the English so many times that they were sharply on the lookout for him.

“How could it be done?

“Near the castle was a gloomy old forest, called Jedburgh. Here, just as the first days of spring began to kindle in the sunrise and sunsets, and warm the frosty hills, Black Douglas concealed sixty picked men.

“It was Shrove-tide, and Fasten’s Eve, immediately before the great Church festival of Lent, was to be celebrated with a great gush of music and blaze of light and free offerings of wine in the great hall of the castle. The garrison was to have leave for merry-making and indulging in drunken wassail.

“The sun had gone down in the red sky, and the long, deep shadow began to fall on Jedburgh woods, the river, the hills, and valleys.

“An officer’s wife had retired from the great hall, where all was preparation for the merry-making, to the high battlements of the castle, in order to quiet her little child and put it to rest. The sentinel, from time to time, paced near her. She began to sing,—

“‘Hush ye,Hush ye,Little pet ye!Hush ye,Hush ye,Do not fret ye;The Black DouglasShall not get ye!’

Mary makes her oath on a Bible

MARY STUART SWEARING SHE HAD NEVER SOUGHT THE LIFE OF ELIZABETH.

“She saw some strange objects moving across the level ground in the distance. They greatly puzzled her. They did not travel quite like animals, but they seemed to have four legs.

“‘What are those queer-looking things yonder?’ she asked of the sentinel as he drew near.

“‘They are Farmer Asher’s cattle,’ said the soldier, straining his eyes to discern the outlines of the long figures in the shadows. ‘The good man is making merry to-night, and has forgotten to bring in his oxen; lucky ’t will be if they do not fall a prey to the Black Douglas.’

“So sure was he that the objects were cattle that he ceased to watch them longer.

“The woman’s eye, however, followed the queer-looking cattle for some time, until they seemed to disappear under the outer works of the castle. Then, feeling quite at ease, she thought she would sing again. Spring was in the evening air; it may have made her feel like singing.

“Now the name of the Black Douglas had become so terrible to the English that it proved a bugbear to the children, who, when they misbehaved, were told that the Black Douglas would get them. The little ditty I have quoted must have been very quieting to good children in those alarming times.

“So the good woman sang cheerily,—

“‘Hush ye,Hush ye,Little pet ye!Hush ye,Hush ye,Do not fret ye;The Black DouglasShall not get ye!’

“‘Do not be so sure of that!’ said a husky voice close beside her, and a mail-gloved hand fell solidly upon her shoulder. She was dreadfully frightened, for she knew from the appearance of the man he must be the Black Douglas.

“The Scots came leaping over the walls. The garrison was merry-making below, and, almost before the disarmed revellers had any warning,the Black Douglas was in the midst of them. The old stronghold was taken, and many of the garrison were put to the sword; but the Black Douglas spared the woman and the child, who probably never afterward felt quite so sure about the little ditty,—

“‘Hush ye,Hush ye,Do not fret ye;The Black DouglasShall not get ye!’

It is never well to be too sure, you know.

THE BLACK DOUGLAS SURPRISING AN ENEMY.

“Douglas had caused his picked men to approach the castle by walking on their hands and knees, with long black cloaks thrown over their bodies, and their ladders and weapons concealed under their cloaks. The men thus presented very nearly the appearance of a herd of cattle in the deep shadows, and completely deceived the sentinel, who was probably thinking more of the music and dancing below than ofthe watchful enemy who had been haunting the gloomy woods of Jedburgh.

“The Black Douglas, or ‘Good James, Lord Douglas,’ as he was called by the Scots, fought, as I have already said, with King Robert Bruce at Bannockburn. One lovely June day, in the far-gone year of 1329, King Robert lay dying. He called Douglas to his bedside, and told him that it had been one of the dearest wishes of his heart to go to the Holy Land and recover Jerusalem from the Infidels; but since he could not go, he wished him to embalm his heart after his death, and carry it to the Holy City and deposit it in the Holy Sepulchre.

“Douglas had the heart of Bruce embalmed and inclosed in a silver case, and wore it on a silver chain about his neck. He set out for Jerusalem, but resolved first to visit Spain and engage in the war waged against the Moorish King of Grenada. He fell in Andalusia, in battle. Just before his death, he threw the silver casket into the thickest of the fight, exclaiming, ‘Heart of Bruce! I follow thee or die!’

“His dead body was found beside the casket, and the heart of Bruce was brought back to Scotland and deposited in the ivy-clad Abbey of Melrose.

“Douglas was a real hero, and few things more engaging than his exploits were ever told under the holly and mistletoe, or in the warm Christmas light of the old Scottish Yule-logs.

“What has interested you most in Scotland?” said Master Lewis to George Howe, continuing the subject.

“I am hardly interested in antiquities at all,” said George, frankly. “I try to be, but it is not in me. A living factory is more to my taste than a dead museum. The most interesting things I have seen are the great Glasgow factories. As for stories, I have been thinking of one that has more force for me than all the legends I ever read.”

“We shall be glad to hear you tell it,” said Master Lewis. “My business is teaching, and it is my duty to stimulate a love of literature.But I have all respect for a boy with mechanical taste; no lives promise greater usefulness. We will listen to George’s story.”

“It is not a romantic story,” said George. “I will call it

“Just above the wharves of Glasgow, on the banks of the Clyde, there once lived a factory boy, whom I will call Davie. At the age of ten he entered a cotton factory as ‘piecer.’ He was employed from six o’clock in the morning till eight at night. His parents were very poor, and he well knew that his must be a boyhood of very hard labor. But then and there, in that buzzing factory, he resolved that he would obtain an education, and would become an intelligent and a useful man. With his very first week’s wages he purchased ‘Ruddiman’s Rudiments of Latin,’ He then entered an evening school that met between the hours of eight and ten. He paid the expenses of his instruction out of his own hard earnings. At the age of sixteen he could read Virgil and Horace as readily as the pupils of the English grammar schools.

“He next began a course of self-instruction. He had been advanced in the factory from a ‘piecer’ to the spinning-jenny. He brought his books to the factory, and placing one of them on the ‘jenny,’ with the lesson open before him, he divided his attention between the running of the spindles and rudiments of knowledge. He now began to aspire to become a preacher and a missionary, and to devote his life in some self-sacrificing way to the good of mankind. He entered Glasgow University. He knew that he must work his way, but he also knew the power of resolution, and he was willing to make almost any sacrifice to gain the end. He worked at cotton-spinning in the summer, lived frugally, and applied his savings to his college studies in the winter. He completed the allotted course, and at the close was able triumphantly to say, ‘I never had a farthing that I did not earn.’

“That boy was Dr. David Livingstone.”

“An excellent story,” said Master Lewis. “A sermon in a story, and a volume of philosophy in a life. Now, Tommy, what is the most attractive thingyouhave seen?”

“I see it now. Oh, look! look!” said Tommy, flying to the window.

The full moon was hanging over the great castle, whitening its grim turrets.

The boys all gazed upon the scene, which appeared almost too beautiful for reality.

“It looks like a castle in the sky,” said Wyllys.

Story-telling was at an end. So the exercises ended with an exhibition of Edinburgh Castle by moonlight.

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