who were the irreconcilable enemies of the throne and the administration in an age when the affairs of state were directed by a Queensberry or a Lauderdale. We can only allude to the "Lilac Sun Bonnet" and "Cleg Kelly." Yet "The Sun Bonnet" is a pretty and delicate fancy, none the less piquant that it was written by a Scottish clergyman in orders. It is a romance of very charming love-making, and the delicate and insidious courtship of winsome Charteris is cleverly contrasted with the vulgar loves of the maids of the farm, with their business-like suitors and the rustic Lovelaces. There is the amorous poetic vein of a Moore and the gay verve of a De Grammont blending with the broadest farce. There have been few more startling conversions in the annals of Scottish churches than the sudden transformation of the priggish probationer who has been a professed misogynist into a passionate admirer of the fairest of her sex. As for "Cleg Kelly," it sadly disappoints us. There is no sort of sequence in it, yet Mr. Crockett challenges criticism on that score by heading his sixty chapters as Cleg's sixty successive adventures. In many of them the young street Samaritan is dropped out of the story, though we follow with no little interest and sympathy the fortunes of his family of small protégés. In that children's pilgrimage, as is his wont, Mr. Crockett brings out the kindly side of feminine nature, and among the children the patronizing little Miss Briggs is charming as his sweetheart daughter in his "Sweetheart Travellers." As for the mad doings and strange housekeeping of General Theophilus Raff, they are more idiotically extravagant than those of Miss Havisham, which are the most fatal blot in "Great Expectations." The general, like, the melodramatic gypsy, in Mr. Barrie's "Little Minister," is forcibly dragged in by the head and shoulders, much to as the injury of a far-fetched and disjointed story. "Ian Maclaren" is, we believe, a clergyman like Mr. Crockett, and so we should judge from internal evidence. "The Bonnie Briar Bush" blooms in the parish of Drumtochty, swept by breezes from the Moray Firth blowing over the Moor of Rannoch. Drumtochty is said to stand for Logiealmond, but we may locate it on the borders of the Western Highlands, where the mystic Celt meets the dour Covenanting Calvinist in the services of the Free Kirk. The author has all the intelligent sympathies of Mr. Barrie, and he is more searching in subtle mental analysis, as perhaps he excels Mr. Crockett in striking and sensational, yet lifelike, portraiture. "The Bonnie Briar Bush" is a sparkling book, though the weeping climate and the sombre scenery throw heavy shadows on the personalities of the struggling community. The hearts are sound and the affections warm, but it is de rigueur to restrain all signs of feeling, and to measure out language slow consideration. carefully after There is infinite humor underlying the solemn gravity, but there is no cleverer chapter than that on "the cunning speech of Drumtochty." No parishioner commits himself rashly to an assertion of the most self-evident truth; and even gratitude for a good harvest or any other temporal blessing is strictly guarded, apparently lest it should seem a wanton provoking of Providence to change the blessing for a curse. There is an admirably droll scene where the parish beadle, cited as a reluctant witness in a clerical court, baffles the counsel for the impeachment, over a frank definition of drunkenness. The Drumtochty folk only speak their minds like men or women-when the surging of inexpressible mental anguish bursts the barriers of conventional restraint. So far as good neighborship and friendly hearts go, Drumtochty, notwithstand ing promiscuous dram-drinking, approaches the ideal Paradise. But "Ian Maclaren" probes the infinite depths of pathos in those simple sequestered lives, when the Angel of Death flutters his pinions over the thatch of the shealing, or when sudden and unlooked-for bereavement has left some irreparable blank. The longest story tells how a gifted youth, the pride of his parents and the hope of his schoolmaster and generous patrons, is carried off by a decline in the flower of his years, and buried amid the lamentations of high and low. Some of the spirit-drinking mourners gave the best proof of the sincerity of their grief by leaving the glasses of whiskey untasted. But the contrasts and inconsistencies of these plain and simple country-folk are brought out with great skill, and, as we are sure, with great truth. The rough, and almost brutal, parish doctor, indefatigable in his wretchedly remunerated labors, and fighting death with rude science and dogged determination, is the more beloved, as he is universally trusted, because no sympathy induces him to palliate the truth. Yet no fashionable physician from Harley street or Saville row can surpass him in natural delicacy. The most touching of the tales is when the most self-glorious professor in the parish has his spiritual pride of orthodoxy humbled to the dust by the shame of an erring daughter. No one dreams, in the hour of his trouble, of taking revenge for Lachlan's domineering self-righteousness. He would fain play the Brutus by moving that the sinner be formally expelled from Church privileges. His fellow-elders take the matter summarily out of his hands; by the power of love and Christian charity his faults of pride are fully brought home to him, and Lachlan becomes an altered character. He fondles back to health the returned prodigal, whom he had vainly striven to banish from his heart, and he who had never unbent to his only daughter becomes the playmate and confidant of all the children. He may still hold theoretically to his decided views on original sin, but in practice they are scattered to the winds. Lachlan is painted as "the Grand Inquisitor." The self-absorbed shepherd had learned his stern religion in the brooding gloom of the mountain solitudes. There, it would appear, he had often mistaken the subtle whispering of the Evil One for the voice of God. His prayers and laypreachings made it clear to all the parish that no one had more experience of the wiles of the enemy. Yet we cannot help smiling-as the author means us to smile-at the story of Lachlan's desperate grapple with the devil, carried on in prayer and in public. He is hurt and mortified when a candid friend, charged with the delicate mission by the Session, takes exception to the sonorous groanings. which scandalized the feebler brethren. Lachlan makes a stubborn defence, but is fairly routed in controversy. We smile at the man; we laugh at his extravagances, and yet we cannot help respecting and even revering him. Perhaps even a more touching scene than the home-coming of the prodigal daughter is when Lachlan makes up a feud with the young minister, whose book-lore and sophistical theology he had denounced with the grim authority of patriarch and prophet. For, as both daughter and minister were brought to realize, the despot of the cottage and of the elders' square pew had suffered more in doing what he deemed his impera-tive duty than the victims into whom he drove the sacrificial knife. Two other stories are worth alluding to, because both show evidence of remarkable promise. Indeed, the "Green Graves of Balgowrie" deserves more than a passing notice. It is melancholy, as we might infer from the title, and the catastrophe is made gratuitously mournful, but the som. bre coloring is artistically toned down and the author has drawn three living portraits. The sisters who are laid to rest in the green graves after a sad though short experience of life's fitful fever, fall victims to the intensity of their mutual love, to the insane crotchets of a feather-brained mother, and to the caprice of a gay young cavalier, who courts, who conquers, and who rides away. But we feel more for the sufferings of the grave clergyman who, having petted the luckless children in the nursery, and won the love of the elder and more thoughtful, buries his affections in one of the graves, and is doomed to an old age unconsoled by oblivion. Yet really he has no cause for regret, since sorrow has sanctified a worldly nature. In is "Robert Urquhart," the canvas rather overcrowded with such parochial worthies as flourished in Glen Quharity and Drumtochty, but though the author seeks his adventurous heroes among school teachers, he makes them human, impressionable, and inflammable. They make love with a spirit and gallantry which leaves little to desire, and their experiences among the Scottish Bohemianism of literary London are as exciting as those in Mr. Barrie's "When a Man's Single." Whether the popularity of the new Scotch novel will endure is a question we hesitate to answer in the affirmative. A moderate amount of the semiintelligible Scottish dialect must go a long way with Southern readers, and already we see signs that even the apostles of the new dispensation cannot repeat themselves with impunity, preserving freshness and originality. There is a certain picturesqueness in weaving Thrums, and there is the sublimity of Highland grandeur in Drumtochty; but, after all, a novelist must rely upon human interest for his effects, and even genius must sooner or later exhaust the materials in a backof-the-world industrial townlet, or a secluded Highland glen. The variety of individual types is limited, and the general characteristics have been stereotyped by time and custom. It is as tacking and beating about in a landlocked Highland loch to launching out on the wide Atlantic or braving the storms of Cape Horn. From The National Review. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S MARRIAGE. Mr. Anthony Santal, a gentlemancommoner of Christchurch, Oxford, was a person of some distinction, being young, handsome, and possessed of large landed property at Minsteracres, in Derbyshire. He had been deprived in early youth both of father and mother, but had attained his majority in the year 1816, and entered on the enjoyment of his estate. It was on the last day of the summer term in that year that Mr. Santal, whilst walking in the High street at Oxford, noticed in the window of a jeweller's shop a gold signet ring exposed for sale. Its solid and antique construction arrested his attention, and he entered the shop and inquired its history and price. The jeweller stated that the ring had been dug up at some village in the north of Oxfordshire, and had been brought to him by a laborer. It bore an incised coat of arms of which Santal was shown an impression; and the man added that a competent antiquarian had blazoned it heraldically as Barry nebuly of six argent and sable, showing that the wavy bands by which the shield was crossed were alternately silver and black. He had not been able to ascertain to what family these arms belonged, but there was cut on the inside of the ring a motto, Beando Beatior, which was, he gathered, to be translated, In blessing thou shalt be blessed. Santal's fancy was attracted by the ring, and as the price asked by the jeweller was by no means excessive, he bought it forthwith, and with a youthful fancy, put it on the third finger of his left hand, which it fitted tolerably well. He had determined to make the return journey from the university to his home on horseback this summer instead of by stage-coach as was his custom; and as the distance from Oxford to Minsteracres was long enough to occupy several days, he was to take with him a riding servant to carry his mails. He left Oxford on the evening of the 22d of June, 1816, and passed the first night at Woodstock. Late on the afternoon of the 23d he found himself on the confines of Warwickshire; and desiring to see Laffontine Abbey, which lay a little off the main road, he struck across the meadows to the ruins, but sent his servant forward to the village of Winterbourne, where an inn called the Bejant Arms had been recommended to him as a good resting-place for the night. The remains were sufficiently picturesque to induce him to make a pencil sketch of them, for he was more than a tolerable draughtsman. His picture so engrossed his thoughts that he paid little attention to the extreme sultriness of the air, or to the continual mutterings of distant thunder, until a heavy raindrop fell on his paper, and he looked up to see the sky behind him black with ominous thunderclouds. The storm broke with unusual fury, and though he found shelter in the ruins both for himself and for his horse, two hours elapsed before he ventured to resume his journey. It was now past ten o'clock and the thunder and rain had ceased, but the rising wind swept masses of clouds across the sky, and the night was growing exceedingly dark. Santal was anxious to lose no time in pushing on to Winterbourne, and took what he thought was a short cut back to the highroad, but after a quarter of an hour's riding found himself in miry tillage VOL. XII. 574 LIVING AGE. fields, and perceived that he had lost his path. As he picked his way carefully through the darkness, he met with a belated peasant who at first seemed alarmed and endeavored to pass on, but on Santal speaking to him excused himself by saying that it was St. John's Eve when spirits walked, and that he had not known what to think of a horseman met in so lonely and unusual a spot. He told Santal that Winterbourne was still eight miles distant, but led him to a lane which would bring him direct to his destination. Santal gave him money and set out at a brisk trot, but he heard the man shouting after him directions to be very careful in fording a brook which crossed the road a mile from Winterbourne. After riding for three-quarters of an hour he saw a wide sheet of water gleaming before him, and recognized in it the ford of which the man had spoken. But on coming to the brink he hesitated to cross, for the heavy rain had evidently swollen the stream, so that it had overflowed its banks, and was now crossing the road in a raging torrent. The breadth of the water was at least twenty yards; and though white posts had been placed on either side to mark the ford, they were in the middle almost entirely covered. Glancing round in some doubt, he saw on the right hand, among trees, the lights of a house; and turning his horse towards it determined to inquire there as to the depth of the water, and if he found it impassable to ask shelter for the night. The lights were at no great distance, and the undulating turf, studded at intervals with large trees, convinced him that he was riding through a park; though he had noticed neither paling nor any other enclosure. The sky had grown a little lighter, and he was soon able to make out against it the huddled outline of a large house; but although he was certainly approaching the front of it, he could not distinguish any road or drive. In a moment more he pulled up before a projecting porch with an arched doorway in the centre of the house, and dismounting, knocked on the heavy oak door with the butt of his riding-whip. His attention was now engrossed by the behavior of his horse. Ever since entering the park the animal had showed signs of terror and excitement, frequently stopping short, starting aside, and making obstinate endeavors to turn back. The butt of Santal's whip had scarcely sounded on the door when it swung slowly open, as if his coming had been awaited; but at the same moment his horse reared with such suddenness as to snap the rein, and, breaking loose, rushed madly away into the darkness. In wheeling round the animal struck its master with its flank, and flung him violently to the ground. For a moment Santal was stunned, but almost immediately gathering himself up he saw standing before him in the porch a sober-faced man, dressed entirely in black, and having the appearance of a lackey. Santal was about to ask to whom the house belonged, and to beg that a servant might be sent to look for the runaway horse, when the man, without speaking, turned back into the house and beckoned to him to follow. On this invitation Santal entered, and noticed that the hall was bare except for a few oak settles, and a quantity of pikes, helmets, and armor which hung on the walls. The floor was strewn with sprigs of evergreen shrubs, and there was a smell in the air of resin and spices with which the trodden leaves mingled a peculiar odor. Following his conductor, he passed through the corridor and entered a lofty banqueting hall or dining-room, with a large oriel window opening on to a dais at the far end. Here were oaken tables on which were placed trenchers of various kinds of cakes and fancy bread, cold meats, tankards of liquor, and drinking-cups. The room was entirely empty, though the tables showed that the company had but recently left it; and Santal was surprised to see that the panelled walls were festooned at intervals with bunches of black crape. Again he essayed to question his guide; but the man left the room, saying that he would fetch his mistress. A few moments elapsed, and then through a side door, which opened on to the dais, there entered a very beautiful girl of eighteen or nineteen years. She was tall in stature, and her pale face and red eyes showed signs of recent weeping. Her dress was of pure white silk; she wore a lace stomacher, and a mass of flaxen hair was confined in a net of heavy gold thread. She walked straight towards Santal, and said, speaking in a low but very clear and musical voice, "You are welcome, sir, to such hospitality as our poor house can offer. You come at a sorry time, and it is but a sorry greeting that we can give you. I pray you be seated and eat, though these are but funeral meats; for we are to-morrow to lay my poor father's body in the grave, and are even now engaged in devotions for the repose of his soul." With that she motioned him to be seated, and sinking herself on a bench hid her face in her hands and wept bitterly. Santal was deeply moved, and his sorrow and sympathy overcoming his astonishment, he tried every means to comfort and console her, but she remained for some minutes immersed in grief. After a time she collected herself sufficiently to lift her head and to enter into conversation with him. She took from him his heavy riding cloak, hanging it over the back of an oaken settle; and then pressed him to eat and drink. "For the hospitality of my father's house," she said, "hath never failed, nor shall it now, though you be the last to |