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charge frae the uplands; I ken him by his bright een, and the smile which belangs to the race from whilk he sprang sac come awa wi' me up to my cave of Adullum, as I call my retreat; and come too, skipper, and gie's an hour or twa o' yere converse, were it but to civilise the laddie, who is but saft and inland-bred, and scarcely kens how to choose between a herling and a haddock. It's no for ane's good, I ken by experience, to talk as the heart likes among thae saulless sinners who come here to pollute the bay wi' their unclean carcasses. The crooning of the chorus of Awa, Whigs, awa!' ance closed the airn door of the Blackhole aneath Dumfries Mid-steeple on me, and at anither time-but this is the height of incivility. Come along, without mair adow."

The residence to which Willie Macmillan now led the way was half cottage and half cavern, and its door looked out on the Bay of Solway, at a height of some three hundred feet above the tide, which, impelled by a gentle wind, leaped even, as it retired against the foot of the almost perpendicular rock on the top of which this lonesome habitation stood. The rock sloped away behind, and on this, as it were in terrace above terrace, the inhabitant had formed a garden, which, shielded by a sudden rise of the rock behind, presented its bosom to the southward as well as western sun, and was stocked with the choicest vegetables, and the rarest flowers which taste could collect, or ingenuity cultivate. If all without was neat and beautiful, all within was comfortable and clean. The walls were dazzling white; the ceiling boarded, and even painted; and on the floor of hewn stone the most fastidious might have dined,for it was as clean as the walls, which shewed nets and fish-spears hung with an eye to the orderly and tasteful.

"Nor am I without the choicest fish for my board, nor the choicest wine to relish it with," said Macmillan, as he saw me looking round with surprise on his establishment; "neither has this rock floor been unprest by the feet of beauty, and of high blood, too. Ay, ye may look, and ye may question with your eyes as mickle as ye like; but what I say

is as true as that the tide is now flowing out of that broad bay."

As he said this, he went to a sort of cabinet, out of which he brought a miniature head of a lady, so fair and so beautiful, that it might have passed, with all unacquainted with the peculiar lineaments of the exiled race, for a Madonna, and one of the loveliest.

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Kneel," said he, as he held it before our eyes.

"Kneel!" exclaimed the skipper. "Is this ane of your idols, now that ye call on us to kneel ?"

"It is indeed," replied Macmillan; "but though an idol worth our worshipping, she demands homage of another kind: many a knee has been bent to her. Look at this white rose; that belongs to the picture: it is dead, and faded for ever; but a fair hand plucked it, and placed it in my bonnet. Could I do less than, with the feeling and fancy which few men want when moved by such a beauty as the Princess of Albany, try to pour out my heart over it in verse ?"

"The White Rose of Albany. This rose yestreen my own true love With white hand plucked for me; But now 'tis dead, and round its bloom No more will sing the bee. No more bright summer's lips in joy Will drink its dew like wine; No more the sun will take delight

For its sweet sake to shine.

Though bloom and beauty both are gone,
Yet this fair rose receives
More homage than when first in light
It waved its fragrant leaves.
Though sun, nor moon, nor morning-star,
No more for it will shine,

I'll worship it-by my true love
'Twas touched, and made divine!""

The deep low tone in which he recited these verses, and the reverence with which he looked on the portrait of that lovely but unfortunate princess, and the relique-like care with which he returned it to the cabinet, told us that his heart had something to do in the matter.

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Now," said the skipper, "I canna understand the thing ava. Stuarts are uncrowned; their right to the throne cut in two, as I would cut a rotten halser; another line sitting in their place, wi' the sceptre of the isle in their hands, hauding

parliaments, making lords, and creating bishops; and yet here is Willie Macmillan-if that be yere real name, of whilk I hae doubts-loves them as well, nay, worships them mair than if they sat on the throne now, and cried, 'Come hither, Willie, and we'll crown ye lord of the half o' Galloway.' Why ye should hope now when a' grounds of hope are gane, and why ye should be a Jacobite when ye might as well be a Plantagenet, I cannot for my soul conceive."

"I would be amazed if ye did," replied the other, "since ye have no such reasons for the attachment as I have, nor such a warmth of imagination to sustain it with. But were the Stuarts as high as they are now low, and to call on me to kneel, and be made lord of Galloway, they would have held their throne now, had they never erred mair nor that. Ye will find the story of my house shadowed out, if not fully expressed, in a ballad, of which there are many versions; but the one I will now repeat is the last, and it certainly is the truest :

"Now, where gang ye, thou silly grey
carle,

Sae soon i' the morning's air?
Up Dee's dark stream, by Dee's wild hill,
To see how my lambkins fare.

A stride or twa took that silly auld carle,
And a gude lang stride took he.
I trow thou art a frack auld carle;
Ye maun shew the way to me.
For I have ridden down silver Nith,
Sae shall I the darksome Dee;
And a' for to take him the young Maxwell,
For a traitor strong is he.

He gae him ae glance that grey auld carle,
A glisk wi' the tail o' his ee;

I wadna for a' wide Gallowa'

Sic a glance had faun on me.

Now he's gane away wi' that grey auld carle

Adown Dee's darksome side.

Ye slew my father, thou base Southron !
Sae did ye my brethren three;
Which brake the heart of my ae sister,
Whom I loved as the light o' my ee.

Come, draw thy sword, thou base South-
ron!

Red-wat wi' blood o' my kin; That sword which slew the three sweetest youths

E'er lifted a brow to the sin,

Come, draw thy sword, thou base Southron !

For I swear by yon sun so bright, That one of us twain by Dee's wild

stream

Has the last look of his light.

There's ae strake for my dear auld father; There's twa for my brethren three; And there's ane to thy heart for my se sister,

Whom I loved as the light o' my ee.'"

"Now I dinna marvel, seeing how the tide runs and yere sails were set, that ye should retain some wee reverence for the race of the Stuarts," said the skipper; "but how ye should come to stuff yere head wi' auld blethering ballads, sic as can be had in ony ballad-singer's basket, sax for a baubee, surprises me much; and how a man sae wise and auld-farrant as you should take to the discreditable shift of penning them, dumfounders me entirely—puts my pipe clean out, as the Englishers say. Taye lived in hope that the ballads ye were sae fond of repeating were of other folks' composing."

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ye

"Ah!" replied Macmillan, wrong the gentle craft of balladmaking; and let those who think that little sense or thought go to such compositions even try to make a ballad o' the best. But it was na from the love of making words rhyme and rattle that I took such a task in hand, it was to drown thought and wear away the tyrant hours of time. Ah! mony a night have I sat outwatching the stars on this very cliff,

O, light and gang, thou sodger gentle fighting over again the battles I have

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fought, and adventuring again on bygone adventures. I have seen in vision all those I loved and all those I hated on this very floor; and when I prevailed on Song, as on an angel, to lift her voice and drive the evil the good to remain,

his ignorant scorn of what has been to me as a deity?"

I looked on the glowing brow of the old Jacobite as he said this with an eye which sympathised much in his feelings; the very beat of my heart took his part. Neither did I consider him altogether wrong in his love of the line of the Stuarts. There is a sort of hanker in Scotland's heart to this day after the right blood of the Bruce; nor did I ever hear the wildest Cameronian speak with bitterness of their errors. I was grown up myself to man's estate before I could understand the theory of our constitution, which turned away the Stuarts, and called a foreigner to the throne, who could have no interest in our glory nor part in our shame, but who must sit like a king of ninepins, to be knocked down at pleasure.

While this was passing through my heart, the mind of Macmillan had wandered to other lands, and was with the exiled race,-" Ah, had you but seen what I have seen," said he, " your_eyes would drop tears of blood. I speak not of the younger prince, who was persuaded out of his high birthright, and put on a cardinal's cap,-one at Rome was well paid for this piece of scoundrel policy, which stopt the line of the Stuarts, and barred them for ever from the throne; but I speak of the elder prince, who was a man of a high and noble nature before public misfortune and domestic wrong soured and stung him. He loved to sit, with his daughter the Duchess of Albany looking up in his face, and relate the strange and dreamlike

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campaigns of 1745 and 1746, when he warred for his crown, and all but won it, in Scotland and England both, - his voice boldened, his colour heightened, and all his ancient fortitude and high courage returned to his frame and his face, and he looked the monarch of the first of islands. But he disliked to be questioned by strangers about adventures, which to his friends he would relate from free will. One day-among the last I was in Rome-I had asked for an interview with the Duchess of Albany, and we were sitting in one of the chambers of the palace, when I heard her father's voice more excited than common,- There is an English gentleman with the king,' she observed, and I fear they are speaking of the Forty-five. Oh, this must not be allowed!'

"We rose; but cre we reached the gallery whence the words came, we heard a deep groan, and then the sound of one falling heavily on the floor. We ran and found the prince lying in a swoon,- Sir,' said the duchess to the stranger, what made you be so ungenerous as to speak of my royal father's misfortunes to him? -nothing but that could have done this.'

"I only asked him,' replied the other, what prevented him to march forward when he was at Derby? He answered, Treason!' and then dropt on the floor.'"

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Here I shall close this first chapter of Jacobite controversy and conversation. If I have interested the reader, I may be prevailed upon to add a second chapter.

A CHAPTER ON THE DOGS OF SEVERAL OF MY ACQUAINTANCES.
"Love me, love my dog."-Proverb.

WHO is there that does not feel an
interest for the sagacious quadruped
which is so faithfully attached to man
-the animal of all animals, according
to Linnæus, the most singular, the
most complete, and the most useful
conquest man has made? It is the
only animal that has followed man
all over the earth. But I am not
going into the natural history of the
beast, only merely intending to
present reminiscences of several ugly
dogs, sundry queer dogs, and some
sad dogs, collected while I was on the
dog-watch. I am afraid that I shall
not be able to confine myself entirely
to the description of the dogs of my
acquaintances, but that a portion of
the characters of their several mas-
ters or mistresses must necessarily
obtrude.

I shall therefore, without further preface, commence with No. 1,—

MR. WADDILOVE'S FIDELIO. "Fidelio," or, as Mr. Waddilove called him, when he was in a very good humour," Fiddle,” was a mongrel, the mother, a pointer (or rather a pointress); the father, a village cur, distantly allied to the terrier family. Fidelio grew to twice the size of his father, but never arrived at his mother's points. In colour, Fidelio was of a dull black, with some scattered white about the collar and the two fore feet, which looked like Mr. Tag's frill and ruffles. Fidelio was long-backed-much too long for his legs; narrow-chested. His tail had, by the humanity of Mr. Waddilove, not undergone any cur-tailment; and his ears dangled in graceful flaps, one rather cocked up higher than the other, especially when the dog was noticed, or thought that a bone was likely to fall to his share. It was not in Fidelio's nature to gain flesh. No want of food,—kind Mr. Waddilove took care of that; but he had never in his puppyhood been wormed. He always looked ungainly, and evidently often dreamed strange dreams. Fidelio was a goodtempered, but not a sprightly young dog. There was an amiability in his

eyes, but a great lack of intelligence. Ile bore a kick better than most dogs ; and sooner than stop and play with a strange dog in the street, which custom frequently commences in jest and ends in earnest, Fidelio always preferred, with a praiseworthy caution, to cross to the other side of the way, with his tail rather lowered, and curved between his hinder legs. Indeed, I never imagined him to be a dog of high spirit.

Mr. Waddilove was about sixtythree years of age, and had been rather disappointed in his views of life; for when he imagined he could retire from trade with a comfortable independence (in fact, he had nominally retired), a junior partner, who was empowered, and was supposed, to carry on the business, and who kept a gig, visited Ascot, Epsom, and Doncaster, suddenly disappeared one settling-day at Tattersal's, leaving Mr. Waddilove to arrange all balances on the partnership accounts.

After gloomily putting affairs square with the creditors, Mr. Waddilove retired within himself, as it were. He never could divest himself of the air of a man who had been done! And he took to a great arm-chair, tobacco-pipes, and cold brandy and water. He became a sort of backparlour Timon. He could not bear to see either his relations or friends. The first-named were needy (with the exception of a nephew, who was rapidly rising in professional popularity as a lecturing anatomist); and as for friends,

"Let no man grumble when his friends fall off,

As they will do, like leaves at the first breeze."-BYRON.

Yet one friend sat placidly looking in his master's face, almost appearing to wonder what had occasioned that countenance to be puckered up into the crooked lines and frowns of mor tification. That friend was Fidelio. "Fiddle, you rascal, you!" grunted Mr. Waddilove, "you are still honest and true." The dog rested his two fore-paws on the leg of his patron,

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put out his long tongue in the hope to lick the hand that patted him; but, whatever might be his affectionate feeling for Mr. Waddilove, he was compelled to avert his head and wink his eyes at the odorous puffs of the tobacco-pipe.

Custom reconciles us to a misapplication of terms. When you apply an opprobrious epithet to a confirmed sot, he is generally called "a drunken dog." How unjust to the animal ! A dog has not the faculty to get drunk. The nearest approach to the effects of intoxication is when a dog is mad, and cannot account for his conduct; but then he will not even drink water!

Mr. Waddilove would sit boxed in his arm-chair, smoking, and frequently replenishing his tumbler, and of course emptying it; ruminating on the falsehoods and wickednesses of mankind, and gradually warming himself into the belief that his own character approached nearer to general perfection than that of any person he knew; and when he arrived at that important conclusion, he constantly fell asleep. Mr. Waddilove's snore was the signal for the faithful Fidelio to attend upon his own affairs, by placing himself in various picturesque postures, to give notice to quit to certain unwelcome denizens of his hide, whose activity is so well known, and whose superior intellects and capabilities have been lately brought before an enlightened British public in a microscopic exhibition in the Strand.

In the diligent performance of this

task, where Fidelio almost appeared (black as he was) in the attitude of "Old Scratch," his bony tail would thump loudly on the floor. This sound invariably aroused Mr. Waddilove, who, though ignorant of the cause, but hearing the knocking, I would look towards the door and

mutter, "Come in." And again would he drop his treble chin upon his breast, again snore, until once more awakened by the rapping of Fidelio's tale. Again would Mr. Waddilove lift up his heavy head, and gruffly exclaim, "Come in, d--n you, whoever you are!"

Matters went on in this way for some time, Fidelio and his master rather increasing in the estimation of each other, when, not to be too prolix in my narrative, one day Mr. Waddilove had just picked a muttonchop bone at his dinner and left on it a piece of undigestible horny skin for his four-legged pet. He then called for "Fiddle," but the dog did not appear. This was considered strange conduct on the part of Fidelio. The bones, however, were ordered to be put by for him; and so they were the next day, and the next, and the next, but "Fiddle" was not forthcoming. Mr. Waddilove vehemently complained that some person must have feloniously decoyed away his dog, but he was invariably and positively assured that no one would steal such an animal! He was an useless mongrel, and not sufficiently fat to find his way to the bear's grease manufacturers.

In fact, the result of the inquiries produced the highest encomiums on Mr. Waddilove's philanthropy, as people were convinced that nobody else in the world but Mr. W. would have kept such a dog as Fidelio. But Mr. Waddilove never could be persuaded that his animal was either worthless or ugly (so does affection mislead us); and he actually had bills printed, offering a reward of one sovereign to whomsoever would restore Fidelio ("answers to the name of Fiddle") to his disconsolate master. But it was all in vain. The disappearance was veiled in impenetrable mystery.

After the usual mental mourning for the loss of a friend, Mr. Waddilove became even more secluded than ever. He was now always enveloped

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