Skip to main content

Full text of "Pot pourri of gifts literary and artistic : contributed as a souvenir of the Grand Masonic bazaar in aid of the annuity fund of Scottish Masonic benevolence, Edinburgh, 1890"

See other formats


JI10 JO o. 



^''11 ^ 19 



MISa3AINn 3H1 o 



\ 



J I' 



JO Aavaan 3hi <> 



\ 



'■ 5a;)Ta r.ARBARA o 



/ 



THE liPBAliY Of o 




o ViNSCJIlVD dO o 



o THE UNIVERSITY 



;tj 



B 



SANTA BARBARA °^ 



o OF CAUFORMIA o 



u 



eD 



S^o 



o dO A8VI)9n 3Hi 



vavaava vinvs 



r 



o AilSaBAlNn 3H1 o 



O OF CAllFO^'-JIA 



c. THE UNIVEPSITY o 



felf \ 



■--1 



ri 



dO ASVaBH 3H1 



o OF CAIIFOPNIA 



?;:a^ 



JO Advian 3Hi 



kSSai 



M£ 



SANTA BARBARA ° 



vavgavfl vinv? 



J 



)ri 



THE UBRARY OF 


r 


c 


T 


L 


h 


u± 



o vaveave vinvs o 



o viNaodnvD dO 



o THE LIBBAPy OF 



c 







AllSaSAINfl 3H1 



o THE UNIVERSITY 



r.\r 



/ 



i-i+ri? 



AllSS3AINn 3H1 ° 



o viNaodiivD JO » 



° SANTA BARBARA 



THE LIBPAPY OF 



M^5II 



mf^ 



o VINSOJIlvi iO o 



o vavaavB vinvs 



5H 



o All$a3Alt4n 3Hi 



OF CAIIFORNIA o 



U 






0D 



B 



V^ 



dO Aavasn 3hi ° 



o THE UNIVERSITY 

o 



im: 



«> SANTA BARBARA ' 



/ 



o 


THE liERAPY OF 


> 


f ,y 


\r- 


> 

> 


i^'J 


r^ 



o VINBOJllVD JO o 



OF CAIIFORNIA o 



L^^ 



o THE UNIVERSITY 
O 



Of CAUFORNIA o 



ii€ 



B 



" SANTA BARBARA » 



c THE UNIVERSITY 



\JrC 




dO Aavaan 3hi 



o THE v:Be-.t?v Of 






\ / 



\ 



,- i , 



/ 



:.AIiIA L'.ARl)/. r'.l 



\ 



/ 



r'-ICOPMIA o 




o J,ilS83AINn 



L_ 



\ 



[ UNIVERSITY o 



\ 



/ 



o THE LIBRARY OF o 



"I 1 

o SANTA BARP 



/ 



o viNaodiivD JO °. 



« AllS»3AINn 3Hi 



° JO *.SWi(9n 3Hl 



o THE UBPARV OF 



51 f /^.^ 



o « 



SANTA BARBARA "^ 



° JO xav«6ii 



o JO Aswaan 3hi 



Ltt^^ 



\ „ / 



THE LIBRARY OF o 



o v;t.,-!CjnvD 



o THE UNIVERSITY o 

::no 



rPT 



o Of CALIFORNIA 



o VaV9>IV9 VINVS 



"'I I I 

« SANTA BARBARA o. 



o JO AHVOan 3Hi 



o AllSdJAlNn 9H1 <i 



L__ -qs 



Pot Pourri 











,,^"' 



Pot Pourri 

of 

Gifts Literary and Artistic 



CONTRIBUTED AS A SOUVENIR OF THE GRAND MASONIC BAZAAR 

IN AID OF THE ANNUITY FUND OF SCOTTISH MASONIC 

BENEVOLENCE, EDINBURGH 1890 



EDITED BY 

W. GRANT STEVENSON, A.R.SA., 

R.W.M. OF LODGE DRAMATIC AND ARTS, No. 757 



PRINTED FOR LODGE DRAMATIC AND ARTS, No. 757, 

BY TURNBULL & SPEARS, THISTLE STREET, 

EDINBURGH 1890 



\' 



P r e f a c e 



npHE LODGE DRAMATIC AND ARTS, 
-*- No. 757, begs most gratefully to thank those 
Authors and Artists who have so generously devoted 
their literary and artistic gifts to the production of 
this interesting Souvenir of the Grand Masonic 
Bazaar. Contributions have been received from 
those outside the Craft, — but charity claims us all 
in a common brotherhood ; and it will doubtless be 
a source of pleasure to all who have contributed 
their offerings, that the Annuity Fund of Scottish 
Masonic Benevolence will be substantially benefited 
by their efforts. 



December 1890. 



Contents 



Pot Pourri (a Prefatory Flourish) 

Age ..... 

The Prince's Quest 

Anni Fugaces 

Glentirlie .... 

A Ballade of Tobacco Smoke 

A Sunny Morning in my Garden . 

" La Tombe dit a la Rose " 

The Truth about Lambs . 

The Beautiful 

The Gypsy Wooer . 

An Old World Matter 

Men and Books 

The Prayer of the Pompeian Mother 

An Easterly Harr 

The Poppy Blows . 

" The Castled Rhine" 

In Ne\v College Chapel, Oxford 

Bazaars .... 

A Madrigal 

The End of It . 





page 




1 1 


Johti Stuart Blackie 


15 


Jerome K. Jerome 


16 


Hugh Haliburton 


• 27 


John Tod 


29 


Alexander Anderson . 


• 52 


Annie S. Swan 


54 


W. H. Mallock 


58 


W. Grant Stevenson, A.R.S.A 


59 


Sir Noel Faton 


64 


Graham K. Tomson 


66 


James C. Dibdin 


68 


John Stuart Blackie 


73 


D. W. Stevenson, R.S.A. 


74 


Sarah Tytler . 


76 


H. Bellyse Baildon 


82 


Robina F. Hardy 


84 


Sir Nod Faton 


94 


J. M. Barrie . 


95 


George A. Feacock 


99 


IV. E. Henley 


100 



List of Illustrations 



Pot Pourri 

St Giles' . 

Por Pourri {Initial) 

Age 

The Prince's Quest {Initial) 

Anni Fugaces 

Do. 
Glentirlie 

Do. 

Do. 

A Ballade of Tobacco Smoke 

A Sunny Morning in my 
Garden 

La To.mbe bit a la Rose 
(Initial) 

The Truth About Lambs 

Do. Do. . 

The Beautiful (/w7/^?/) 



PAGE 

Cover 



15 
16 



W. BURN-MURDOCH 
GEORGE REID, R.S.A. 
TOM M'EWAN 
OTTO T. LEYDE, R.S.A. 
G. DENHOLM ARMOUR 
H. W. KERR . 
GEORGE AIKMAN, A.R.S.A. 
G. W. JOHNSTONE, A.R.S.A. 
R. B. NISBET . 
WILLIAM SMALL 
DUNCAN MACKELLAR 

T. M. HAY 



J. MICHAEL BROWN . . 58 

W. GRANT STEVENSON, A.R.S.A. 61 

Do. Do. . . 63 

64 



26 



35 
42 

53 



lO 



Pot Pourri. 









PAGE 


Ax Old World Matter 




. 


71 


Do. Do. 






. 72 


The Prayer of the Pompeian 






Mother 




J. MICHAEL BROWN 


• 75 


Ax Easterly Harr 




T. M. HAY 


. n 


Do. 




Do. . . • 


. 80 


The Poppy Blows 




JOHN BLAIR . 


. 82 


Do. 




Do. . . . 


. 83 


"The Castled Rhine" 




POLLOCK S. NISBET 


. 87 


In New College Chapel, 


Ox- 






FORD . 




HARRY MITCHELL . 


• 94 


The Exd OF It . 




SAMUEL REID 


ICI 



Pot Pourri 



A PREFATORY FLOURISH 




MEG lifting the lid of the 
Pot, an odour was diffused 
through the place, which, 
if the vapours of a witch's 
cauldron could in aught be 
trusted, promised something 
better than the hell-broth 
which such vessels are 
usually supposed to con- 
tain. It was, in fact, the 
savour of a goodly stew, 

composed of fowls, hares, partridges and moor game, boiled 

in a large mess with vegetables and sweet herbs, and from 

the look of the cauldron, appeared to be prepared for a 

multitude of people. 

" Hae, then," said she, heaving a portion of the mess into 

a cream-coloured dish and strewing it savourily with salt and 

pepper, " there's what will warm your heart." 

"I do not \\MXig^r\—conjuro ^el—thai is, I thank you heartily, 

Mrs Merrilees," stammered the Dominie ; for he said to him- 



12 



Pot Pourri. 



self, " The savour is sweet ; but it hath been cooked in the 
feob^e ©ramattC ant (^xU. Who knoweth what mystic 
passes have been made over the pot ; or with what forbidden 
rites the ingredients thereof have been gathered together ; or 
what evil purposes they are to serve." 

" Awa' wi' ye, ye worricow ! " said the sibyl, impatiently 
notino- his hesitation. " Kent ye ever ill ware wi' sae halesome 
a reek ? If ye dinna eat instantly, and put some saul in ye, 
by the bread and the salt, I'll put it down your throat wi' the 
cutty spoon. Gape, sinner, and swallow." 

Sampson, afraid of eye of newt, and toe of frog, tigers' chaul- 
drons, and so forth, had determined not to venture ; but the 
smell of the stew was fast melting his obstinacy. Hunger and 
Curiosity are excellent casuists. 

"Saul," said Hunger, "feasted with the Witch of Endor." 
" And," quoth Curiosity, " the salt which she sprinkled upon 
the food shewed plainly it is not a necromantic banquet, in 
which that savouring never occurs." " And besides," said 
Hunger, after the first spoonful, " it is savoury and refreshing- 
viands." 

" Eat your fill," said the hostess ; " but an ye kenned 
how the meat was gotten, ye ma)'be wadna like it sae week" 
Sampson's spoon fell, in the act of conveying its load to his 
mouth. " I hae them that will baith write and read and ride 
and rin for me," continued Meg. " There's been mony a 
midnight watch to bring a' that trade together." 

" Is that all," thought Sampson, resuming his spoon, and 
shovelling away manfully. " I will not lack my food upon 
that argument." 

" Now ye maun tak' a dram." 



Pot Pourri. 13 

" I will," quoth Sampson. And when he had put this 
copestone upon Meg's good cheer, he felt, as he said, 
" mightily elevated and afraid of no evil that could befall him." 

— " Guy Mannering',' adapted. 

The first thing that took captive and subdued Sancho's 
desire was a Pot, which was never made of the mould of 
common pots, and around which were men and women cooks, 
all cunning, all zealous, and all content. So without being 
able to suffer longer, and having no power for aught else, he 
came to one of the busy cooks, and with courteous and hungry 
arguments, entreated that he would let him dip a crust of 
bread in it. 

To which the Cook replied, " Brother, this is not a day 
over which hunger rules, thanks to the givers of the feast ; 
alight, and look about thee for a ladle, and skim out a pullet 
or two, and much good may they do thee." 
" I cannot see one," said Sancho. 

" Hold on," cried the Cook. " Body o' me ! But what 
a dainty do-nothing art thou ! " Saying this, he took a 
kettle, and, after a prefatory flourish, plunging it into the pot, 
he drew out three fat pullets and two wild fowl, and said to 
Sancho, " Eat, friend, and break thy fast with these skimmings 
while dinner time is coming." 

" I have nothing to put it in," said Sancho. 
" Well take it all," said the Cook, " spoon and everything ; 
for liberal hearts supply all." 

" Brother," said the squire, " to this House I hold me. 
And methinks there can be no better Symbol of Brotherhood 
than this feasting, where what is given is given with good 



14 Pot Pourri. 

will, and accepted with thankful heart, and consumed with 
lusty appetite. Aught else is idle words, for which they will 
demand an account from us in the next world." Saying this 
he began anew to assault the contents of the Pot with such 
sturdy stomach that it awaked that of Don Quixote. 

— ''Don Quixote" sligJitly altered. 



Age 








PAINT me no lies ! full surely I draw breath 
Ten years beyond the proper time to die ; 
And if you hail me still not far from death, 
Your words are traitor to the truth — you lie. 
Autumn hath fruits unknown to merry May, 
But May hath bloom, and pledge of fruitage too, 
And the delight of growing day by day 
More strong in substance and more bright in hue. 
Age may not grow ; if in my span of time 
God gave me grace with stretch of pious pains, 
From pleasant thoughts to weave a tuneful rhyme. 
Or preach a needful truth from well-schooled brains. 
Enough : I stirred the soil and plucked the weed, 
Where happier hands may cast the fruitful seed. 



^(fiul Ju^ii.U^Jji 




The Prince's Quest 




NCE upon a time, in a far-off 
country, there lived a Prince who 
ought to have been very happy but 
wasn't. He reissued in a eoreeous 
palace, and was rich, and powerful, 
and great, and had everything he 
wanted — that is, at least, he had 
everything he wanted, except the 
one thing that he wanted more than 
anything else on earth, and to obtain 
which he would have given half his 
kingdom. He would have given 
the whole for the matter of that, 
only he had already promised the 
other half to any one who would 
tell him what it was he wanted. 

Everybody had a guess at it, but nobody seemed able to 
hit upon it. Everything that was suggested he had ; every- 
thing that wealth could buy, or skill procure, was his already, 
So at last he appealed to the wise men of the city, and they 
put their heads together, and found out the wrong thing, and 
the Prince became more despondent than ever. 

In the palace his jovial companions made laugh and jest, 
and kept the walls for ever echoing to the tune of their noi y 



The Prince's Quest. 17 

merriment. All day long they hunted the deer through the 
forest glades, or rode a-hawking in gay cavalcade ; and at 
night there were feasting, and dancing, and song, and the 
wine ran free, and the mirth ran high, and happiness beamed 
on every face except the Prince's. In the midst of all the 
revelry he sat silent and apart, or shunned the chase to muse 
alone on what this thing could be, the want of which, with all 
his wealth, made life seem so imflnished. 

" Oh, is there no one who can tell me what I want ? " 
sighed the Prince aloud, one day, as he threw himself down 
on the ground beside a fallen tree. 

" I can." 

It was a little old man that spoke ; a little bent, withered 
old man, with wrinkled face and snow-white hair ; but his 
eyes were brighter than a boy's, and his voice was as clear as 
a sweet-toned bell, and, as he looked down at the Prince 
from his seat on the tree, he laughed a merry, childish laugh. 

The Prince looked up at him, and wondered how he got 
there, but was too surprised to speak, and only stared in 
silence at the merry, twinkling eyes. 

" Well," said the little old fellow after a while, " shall I 
tell you ? Would you like to know what it is you want, or 
have you come to the sensible conclusion that after all it is 
not worth the knowing ? I think you had better not know," 
he went on, changing from gay to grave. "It may make 
you only more unhappy. It will bring you pain and trouble. 
You are young and weak — why seek to know ? Rest with 
the happiness you have, child. Joy is only reached through 
sorrow." 

But the Prince heeded not the warning. All eagerness 



i8 Pot Pourri. 

and hope, he started up, and caught the old man by the 
hand, and would not let him go. 

" Tell me, you who are wise, and who know," cried he ; 
^'tell me and I will seek for it through fire and water. I am 
strong, not weak — strong to dare, to suffer, and to win. I will 
iind it, if it take me all my life, and cost me all my treasure." 

The old man gently laid his hand upon the Prince's head, 
and a look of pity was in the bright, quick eyes. 

" Lad," said he, and his voice was grave and tender, 
" you shall seek your wish. You shall toil for it, and your 
brain shall ache. You shall wait for it, and your heart shall 
pant. You shall pass through sorrow and through suffering 
•on your search ; but when you are weary and footsore the 
thought of it shall strengthen you, when your heart is heaviest 
the hope of it shall raise you up, and in your darkest hour it 
shall come to you as the touch of a mighty hand. Prince, it 
is Love you lack. Go seek it." 

So the scales fell from the Prince's eyes, and he stood as 
one that has suddenly emerged from darkness into light, half- 
bewildered before he understood. Then stretching out his 
arms, he called to Love, as though he would draw her down 
from heaven, and clasp her to his heart. 

" Oh, Love," he cried, " why have I been so blind as not 
to know your messenger, who spoke within me ? I might 
have wandered lonely all my life, uncaring and uncared for, 
and never dreamed of your dear presence, nor ever have 
known that it was for need of your sweet voice that all the 
world seemed drear." 

Full of gratitude, he turned to thank his mysterious guide, 
but the little old man was gone. 



The Prince's Quest. 19 

The Prince's own sentinels scarcely knew their lord when 
he returned to the palace, and even the old hall-porter who, 
twenty years ago, had rocked him on his knee, looked hard at 
him, and seemed inclined to challenge his breathless entrance. 
Never was a man so changed in half-an-hour before. Out 
into the woods had gone a moody, sorrowful youth, with 
wavering steps and dreamy, downcast eyes, while back had 
come a gallant Prince, with quick, firm tread, and head thrown 
back, and eyes that flashed with high resolve. Small wonder 
if the porter was in doubt. 

In the banquet-hall his guests already waited his arrival, 
and hurrying thither straight, without a word he passed up the 
crowded room until he reached the dais at the end, and there 
he turned and spoke : 

" Friends," said the Prince, "rejoice with me, for to-day 
I have learnt the thing that I want. To-day I have found 
out what is the only thing on earth that can make me happy 
— the only thing on earth I have not got— the only thing I 
cannot do without, and that I mean to seek for till I have 
found. Let all my true friends join me, and at to-morrow's 
dawn we will start to search the world for Love." 

Then one and all cheered loud and long, and swore that 
each was his loyal friend, and swore that they would follow 
him throughout the whole wide world, and they drank a 
bumper to success, and another one to Love, and never in 
that palace had a banquet been so gay, and never before had 
such merry guests feasted in that hall. Long into the night 
they drank and sang, and their loud laughter filled the palace 
full, and overflowed through open door and window out into 
the stillness, and the red deer browsing heard it, and scudded 



20 



Pot Pourri. 



away down the moonlit glens, nor dreamt then of the time 
when they would fearlessly crop the grass round the very walls 
of the palace, and rest secure and undisturbed upon its weed- 
grown terraces. 

But no shadow of the coming gloom marred the glitter- 
ing pageantry on which the morning sun threw down his glory, 
as gay with silk, and flashing steel, and fluttering plumes, and 
prancing steeds the gallant train of knights and squires rode 
slowly down the hill. And hearts were light and hopes were 
high, but no heart so light as the Prince's, no hopes so high 
as his, as he rode at the head of that gay throng, the gayest 
of them all. 

At each place that they came to the Prince enquired for 
Love, but found, to his astonishment, that, though people 
talked about her a good deal, hardly anyone knew her. Few 
spoke of her as a reality. Most folks looked upon her as a 
joke ; others, as a popular delusion ; while the one or two 
who owned to having known her seemed half ashamed of 
the acquaintanceship. There were shams and imitations in 
abundance, but the real thing, when acknowledged, was con- 
sidered vulgar, and no one knew or cared what had become 
of her. 

The first place at which they halted was the town of 
Common-Sense — a most uncomfortable place, all full of close 
and narrow streets that led to nowhere, and inhabited by a 
race celebrated for the strength of their lungs, it being 
reckoned that one man of Common-Sense was equal to a 
dozen poll-parrots, and could talk down fifty men of Intel- 
ligence (their natural enemies) in less than half an hour. The 
religion of this charming people was touching in its simplicity. 



The Prince's Quest. 21 

It consisted of a firm and earnest belief that they were infal- 
lible, and that everybody else was a fool ; and each man 
worshipped himself. 

They were quite indignant when the Prince asked them 
where Love was. 

" We know nothing at all about her," said the men of 
Common-Sense. " What have we to do with Love ? What 
do you take us for ? " 

The Prince was too polite to tell them what he took them 
for, so merely bidding them adieu with a pitying smile, rode 
off to seek elsewhere for Love. 

But he had no better luck at the next place they came to. 
This was Tom Tiddler's Land, and the people there were 
very busy indeed. So busy were they, picking up the gold 
and the silver, that they had not time even to make them- 
selves respectable, and their hands were especially dirty — but 
then it was rather dirty work. 

" Love ! " said the people of Tom Tiddler's Land. " We 
don't keep it. Never heard of it. Don't know what it is. 
But dare say we could get it for you. What are you willing 
to go to for it ? " 

" You can't buy it," explained the Prince. " It is given." 
" Then you won't get it here, young man," was the curt 
reply ; and they went on with their grovelling. 

At last the Prince came to the City of Science, where he 
was most hospitably received, and where for the first time he 
learnt the great truth that everything is just precisely what 
one always thought it wasn't, and that nothing is what one 
thinks it is. The inhabitants w^ere all philosophers, and their 
occupation consisted of finding out things that nobody wanted 



22 



Pot Pourri. 



to know, and in each day proving that what they themselves 
had stated the day before was all wrong. They were very 
clever people, and knew everything— Love included. She 
was there, in the city, they told the delighted Prince, and 
they would take him to her. 

So, after showing him over the town and explaining to 
him what everything wasn't, they took him into their museum, 
which was full of the most wonderful things, and in the centre 
was Love — the most wonderful of them all. The Prince 
couldn't help laughing when he saw it, but the philosophers 
were very proud of it. It sat upright and stiff on a straight- 
backed chair, and was as cold as ice. 

" Made it ourselves," said the philosophers. " Isn't it 
beautiful ! Acts by clockwork, and never goes wrong. War- 
ranted perfect in every respect." 

" It's very charming," answered the Prince, trying to 
swallow down his disappointment ; " but I'm afraid it's not the 
sort of thing I wanted." 

" Why, what's amiss with it ? It's got all the latest 
improvements." 

"Yes," replied the Prince with a sigh, "that's just it; I 
wanted it with all the old faults." 

Again the Prince journeyed on, and came to a town where 
lived a very knowing people called " Men of the World," 
who had the reputation of " knowing their way about " — a 
reputation, the acquirement of which it was difficult to under- 
stand, seeing they never, by any chance, went outside their own 
town — a remarkably small one, although the inhabitants firmly 
believed that it was the biggest and most important place on 
earth, and that no other city was worth living in for a day. 



The Prince's Quest. 23 

A dim oil-lamp burnt night and day in the centre of the 
town, and the inhabitants were under the impression that all 
light came from that, for as they crawled about on their hands 
and knees, and never raised their eyes from the ground, they 
knew nothing about the sun. When they had crawled once 
forwards and backwards across their little town, they thought 
they had seen " life," and would squat in a corner, and yawn, 
till they died. 

When the Prince mentioned the name of Love to these 
creatures, they burst into a coarse, loud laugh. " Is that 
what you call it ? " said they. ** Why, wherever do you come 
from ? We know what you mean, though. Come along." 
And they took him into a dingy room, and showed him a 
hideous, painted thing that made him sick to look upon. 

" Let us leave this place quickly," said the Prince, turning 
to his followers. " I cannot breathe in this foul air. Let us 
get out into God's light again." So they mounted in haste 
and rode away, leaving the men who " knew their way about " 
crawling about the ways they knew so well. 

Farther and farther into the weary world wandered the 
Prince on his search ; but Love was still no nearer, and 
though his heart was ever brave, it beat less hopefully every 
day. Time after time he heard of her, and started off, only 
to find some worthless sham — a golden image — a dressed-up 
doll — a lifeless statue — a giggling fool. Shams wherever he 
went, and men and women worshipping, and hugging them 
close to their breasts, knowing all the while that they were 
shams ; and each time the Prince turned away, more sick at 
heart than ever. 

And now, not a single one of all who had shouted their 



24 Pot Pourri. 

loyalty so loudly was left, when weary, baffled, and dis- 
heartened, the Prince at last turned back. A ,^reat longing 
was upon him to be once more among his own people, and 
to see his own land again ; and so, with this last hope, he 
still toiled on, and each day pressed on quicker, fearing lest 
death might overtake him by the way, and that his tired eyes 
never more would rest upon the old grey towers and sweet 
green woods of home. 

But the dreary road came to an end at length, and one 
evening he looked down upon his palace, as it lay before him 
bathed in the red of the sinking sun. Restful, now, he stood 
for a while, feasting his hungry eyes upon the longed-for 
sight, and then his thoughts ebbed slowly back to that morn- 
ing, long ago, when he had bidden it adieu, and had ridden 
forth into the world upon his quest for Love. 

How changed the place ! How changed himself since 
then! 

He had left it as a gallant Prince with all the pride of 
pomp around him, and a gaudy throng of flattering courtiers 
at his side. He crept back, broken-hearted and alone. He 
had left it standing fair and stately in the morning light, and 
bright with life and sound ; now it was ruined, desolate, and 
silent ; the bats flew out of the banquet-hall, and the grass 
grew on the hearths. Another had usurped his throne ; his 
people had forgotten him, and not even a dog was there to 
give him a welcome home. 

As he passed through the damp, chill rooms a thousand 
echoing footsteps started up on every side, as though his 
entrance had disturbed some ghostly revel, and when, having 
reached a little room that in old times he had been wont to 



The Prince's Quest. 25 



go to for solitude, he entered, and shut himself in, it seemed 
as though the frightened spirits had hurried away, slamming 
a thousand doors behind them. 

There, in the darkness, he sat himself down, and buried 
his face in his hands, and wept ; and sat there long through 
the silent hours, lost in his own bitter thoughts. So lost, that 
he did not hear a gentle tapping at the door — did not hear 
the door open, and a timid voice asking to come in — did not 
hear a light step close beside him, nor see a little maiden sit 
herself down at his feet — did not know she was there till, at 
last, with a sigh, he raised his head and looked into the 
gloom. Then his eyes met hers, and he started, and looked 
down at the sweet, shy face, amazed, and half in doubt. 

" Why, you are Love ! " said the Prince, taking her little 
hands in his. "Where have you been, sweet ? I've sought 
you everywhere," 

" Not everywhere," said Love, nestling against him with 
a little half-sad laugh ; " not everywhere. I've been here all 
the time. I was here when you went away, and I've been 
waiting for you to come back — so long." 

And so the Prince's quest was ended. 

JEROME K. JEROME. 



i 




Anni Fugaces 

ALAS ! alas ! my fellow feres, 
We may no more deny 
The pressure of the speeding years ; 
Oor days are driving by. 

Already on the downward track 

The posting furies fare ; 
For virtuous life they will not slack, 

For purpose will not spare. 

This is the ill beneath the sun 

That vexes aging men ; 
Our lease of life is half-gate run 

Before of lease we ken. 

We waste, or wair oor strength of youth 

On idols of the ee, 
Infidel of the wholesome truth 

Of our mortality. 

Ye callants, what avails the strife 
That twyns ye o' your prime ? 

The dearest gift of life is life, 
The dearest enemy time. 



28 



Pot Pourri. 



O ne'er can rank or wealth enhance 
The gift that ne'er was awn, 

The lovely gift, the glorious chance, 
Ance offer'd, sune withdrawn ! 

To them wha on the shaded slope 
Are faring doun, like me, 

With ever daily dwining hope, 
How fair it taks the ee ! 



What had been oors from hour of birth 

We learn to value then ; 
Sweet grow the common joys of earth, 

And dear the face of men. 



H-'iA^C/^ n"g^.''-^^^'Uyi/C:n^ 




G 1 e n t i r 1 i e 

Chapter I. 

I HAVE secured quarters at Glentirlie, Charlie; it looks 
the very place we want. Any number of burns to fish, 
of hills to climb, braes, glens, and nooks for a botanico- 
geologist like you to explore or plunder ; five miles from a 
railway station, quite out of the world, and altogether the 
place for us ; so get your knapsack and tackle ready for 
Saturday." 

" I will, Frank, I will. Our vacations for some years 
back have been all we could wish — for the Continent — scenes 
of beauty, grandeur, or historical interest, brightened by 
charming fellow-travellers. But I have missed the hills and 
heather, the banks and braes of our native land. Oh ! for a 
fortnight's browsing in a quiet Scottish valley, to blow away 
the cobwebs of this year's spinning, and brace us for the next 
stage." 

" Ditto, ditto, Charlie. We have earned a holiday ; both 
of us can say, in cannie mother-country phrase, we have done 
' not badly.' True, there have been hard nuts to crack, and 
middling heavy calls on time and brain, but we have made 
something out of these, and need a rest : let us resolve to 
have a thorough one in Glentirlie." 

" Spoken like an oracle, Frank. No man will ever appre- 



30 Pot Pourri. 

date or enjoy a holiday who has not done his level best to 
deserve it. A fellow that shirks his duty, or does it in a 
dilly-dallying way has no "spring" in him when on furlough. 
He is always yawning or lounging ; finds this place slow, that 
' dead and alive ' ; runs down what he cannot appreciate, 
growls at everything and nothing, cannot see what any fellow 
finds in fishing or climbing, is a bore to others because he is 
bored by himself. Give such fellows a wide berth. Change 
of scene and association makes up for the waste of the past, 
and lays in useful store for the future. Let us rough it in 
Glentirlie like ancient Britons, coming as near the Aborigines 
as possible." 

" So I shall, Charlie. I shall have a tweed suit for Sundays, 
for I do like a country kirk with its simple service ; but on 
other days I shall ignore all ' meritricious graces,' collars, 
cuffs, gloves, razors, and other products of civilisation. My 
' rig ' will be the motley one in which I do my home-dabbling 
in photography. It betrays its occupation. No Jewish ' Old 
Clo' ' would soil his bag with it." 

" I will follow suit, Frank. My botanico-geological gar- 
ments have seen many years' service. They were originally 
roomy and grey, but are now weather-stained enough to grace 
a museum. Great in pockets, begrimmed outside and in, and 
shapeless through long service in carrying specimens of all 
kinds, but of marvellously elastic capacity. Small in buttons 
as far as numbers go, but rich in variety of shape and metal, 
and with at least half of the holes (holes most emphatically) 
marrowless. The hat never was artistic, but, from having 
been made useful in a variety of ways, it would take a first 
prize in an exhibition of gipsy head-gear. All need the fresh 



Glentirlie. 31 

air as much as I do, and I will be a " bogle " for six days out 
of the seven." 

Frank Raeburn and Charles Baillie, whose " crack" we have 
recorded, were as fine young fellows as man could wish to 
meet. They differed in temperament, for Frank was a bit of 
a rattle, and Charlie quieter, but both had the genuine ring 
of noble metal. They had been fast friends during and since 
their college days, were rising, almost risen young men, 
shrewd, painstaking, honourable, and self-respecting ; and 
although somewhat under thirty years of age, they were 
sought after professionally, and trusted. There was in them 
a fine balance of heart, head, and conscience — alike active, 
honest, and sterling. 

Saturday found the two at the railway station, their knap- 
sacks filled with a quaint assortment of old attire, much of 
which had been long neglected in odd corners. Their spirits 
rose as they left Edinburgh behind them, and were high as 
they alighted at the little station of Clearburn. There, mine 
host of Glentirlie awaited them ; and his trusty, if rather 
clumsy " Dawtie," in a waur-o'-the-wear wagonette stood, 
ready to convey them to Glentirlie. 

The road, on the right, skirted the base of well-rounded, 
green, pastoral hills, not high, but sonsie, and sheep-dotted, 
which the driver described as "a grand bite — a gude place 
— fine feedin' — prime — wcel at themsels — top lambs — a 
by-ordnar gude hirsel." On the left stretched a meadow 
laughing in autumn gladness. Here, was a busy group — the 
whole inmates of a small holding, stacking the fragrant 
meadow hay ; there the rasp of a cottar's scythe was heard, 
followed by the whish of the prostrating " victual." Beyond, 



32 Pot Pourri. 

the Tirlie glinted in the sunHght, and brattled along. On the 
road, sometimes a startled, perplexed, miserable, stray lamb 
scurried and wheeled dementedly, while its anxious mother 
watched and bleated at the fence she could not clear ; or 
rabbits hopped across and buried themselves among the 
furze ; and, at one corner, a brace of moorfowl raised their 
bonnie bodies and plumage from the footpath, stared excitedly, 
pattered along the road for a short distance in bewilderment, 
then whirred away, chuckling, into the heather. 

The sights and sounds of the country delighted the visitors ; 
the landlord told them the ancient and modern history of the 
valley. Raeburn was loud in his expressions of pleasure. 
Baillie rather looked than spoke his feelings. He was taking 
it all in, and could only spare " beautiful, lovely, grand," 
as a chorus to his friend's ecstasy, but when they arrived at 
Glentirlie he summed up his abundant satisfaction in " This 
will do." 

Glentirlie was one of those delightful old roadside inns, 
which, in the times of mail coaches, post-chaises, and carriers' 
carts was a busy scene. Its occupation had largely gone since 
the days of railways, but it had become a resort of well-to- 
do fishers and sportsmen. There was a fairly-sized farm 
attached, but nothing of the modern public house or "bar" 
about the place. When the travellers were shown to their 
neat bedrooms, where the napery was good old " burn- 
bleached," home-spun, snow-white linen, and all was fresh and 
homely, redolent of honeysuckle and wild thyme, they were 
highly pleased. When they sat down to the substantial 
" towzie " tea in the big room, the fare was so plain, yet abun- 
dant, suljstantial, and tempting, and Mattie, the servant, so 



Glentirlie. 33 

couthie and pleasant, that they felt happy, and Frank could not 
suppress " three cheers for Glentirlie." 

They sauntered out in the evening, first to the burn 
where the trouts were leaping freely. " That promises 
well," said Charlie, while Frank proposed to get out the 
rods and try a "cast." "Let us take in the place first," 
said Baillie, which they did leisurely. They returned and 
visited the "steading" " 'twixt the gloamin' and the mirk." 




While there, " the kye cam' hame," and they enjoyed the 
embodiment of James Hogg's famous song. When the 
mirk had settled down, the heavens seemed so much more 
star-bespangled than they had ever done before, that they 
gazed upwards and around, entranced by the sparkle, ampli- 
tude and glory of the firmament, and were awe-struck and 

solemn, feeling, as an old writer has expressed, the sense of 

c 



34 Pot Pourri. 

littleness which hills produce on the spirits in the evening. 
Charles Baillie quoted many passages appropriate to the 
scene, and, just before going in for the night, he repeated with 
great feeling — 

*• The stars repeat it down the dark 

In mystic jewelled light ; 
The Urim and the Thummim 

In the watches of the night ; 
And strong Orion shouts to me 

What slumbered in old fable ; 
And echoes from eternal night's vaults 

Answer — Able — Able. 
And comet cresting bending heavens 

Waves echo to the word, 
Like waving white plume in the crested 

Helmet of the Lord." 

A walk of about two miles to church on Sabbath morning 
proved a delight. The rowans, glancing in scarlet and gold, 
waved about like a banner ; the birds repeated the sweet, 
ever-fresh, primitive anthem which has delighted all genera- 
tions of mankind ; the sun gave light or shade to glen and 
corrie, hill and streamlet ; the world was at rest. When they 
reached the church, there was the usual " weekly market " 
near the gate — some shedding flowers over the grave of their 
loved ones — all Sabbath like. 

The opening psalm — 

" I to the hills will lift mine eyes," 

had to them an anthem's force, and, while they enjoyed the 
whole service, they felt a special appropriateness to the season 
and autumn surroundings in the closing psalm ; every line 

TOLD. 




"A WALK OF ABOUT TWO MILES TO CHURCH. 



36 Pot Pourri. 

" So Thou the year most lib' rally 

Dost with Thy goodness crown ; 
And all Thy paths abundantly 
On us drop fatness down. 

They drop upon the pastures wide 

That do in deserts lie ; 
The little hills on every side 

Rejoice right pleasantly. 

With flocks the pastures clothed be, 

The vales with corn are clad ; 
And now they shout and sing to Thee, 

For Thou hast made them glad." 

We will not intrude upon their Sabbath privacy. They 
were wafted backwards to the hallowed associations of well- 
conducted homes of early days ; nearly forgotten faces, scenes 
and impressions became vivid, and each 

" Lonely man went musing in the fields at even tide," 

but encircled by unseen visitants from the realms of memory, 
awakening varied thoughts, as if the unseen were real, and 
the real visionary. \\^hen they parted for the evening, they 
felt that they had spent a day to be remembered. 



Chapter II. 

This "Sabbath well spent" had the effect of which Sir Matthew 
Hale writes as giving " help for the work of the morrow." 
Merry sounds were heard coming from each room as the old 
garments were being put on, and these got louder when the 
young men looked at themselves in the mirrors. The first 
sight of each other set both off into c^uizzical laughter, and 



Glentirlie. 37 

the merriment grew noisier as each surveyed himself or his 
neighbour. 

" Well," said Charlie, when he could speak, " we are 
'guys,' and might pass for 'bogles.' If fishing fails, we shall 
start as beggars." 

When Mattie saw them she laughed heartily and, in her 
blunt honesty said, " My certie, gentlemen, ye have made 
frichts o' yersels," and reported, on returning to the kitchen, 
" that the gentlemen had on as ill-faured claes as ever she saw 
on ony tramp ; but, for a' that, their bonnie, blythe faces an' 
gude manners made them, some way, like real gentlemen too."" 

The inn and outhouses enclosed a wide courtyard on 
three sides, the front being open to the road. Near the 
centre stood a primitive wooden pump, the handle of which 
was seldom still, and, when in action, it produced quite as 
much noise as water. 

" That sound awoke me early this morning," said Raeburn. 
" I could not make out what the grunting, and squeeling, and 
splashing meant." 

"Aye," said Mattie; "our pump is like Nannie Henry's 
o' Lil's'lie." It has a pitifu' time o't. "We've tried to mak' 
it work wi' less noise, but it soon tak's to its auld tune. It's 
grand water, an' never rins dry. But I'm sorry it disturbit 
you. I'll try and get it sorted." 

" Not at all," said Baillie. " It will teach us early hours." 

" There's waur lessons," added Mattie. " An' they say 
the trouts tak' best in the mornings." 

For the first three days the fishers had fair sport in the 
near burns, and enjoyed themselves greatly. On Thursday 
they tried the " Limpie," a larger stream, about five miles 



38 Pot Pourri. 

distant, and were overtaken by a terrific thunderstorm. The 
sheher of some trees proving useless, they made for an open 
door in a garden wall, not far from the river. Once inside 
they darted to a summer-house, but found, to their confusion, 
two young ladies already there, clinging to each other and 
quivering with terror. The intruders started and made as if 
they would retreat ; at the same moment an intensely vivid 
tlash, followed by a near, crashing peal, drew from one of the 
ladies a suppressed scream. The other said, " Don't go. 
Take what shelter the place gives ;" the more timid lady 
adding, " Oh ! do stay till this fearful storm is past. Ask 
them please, Fanny, not to leave us here alone." 

The storm left no alternative. The rain poured as it 
ca7i and docs in an upland valley ; flash succeeded flash, 
peal answered to peal. Baillie offered to go for wraps, but 
the pelting torrent made that unwise, although he said, and 
keenly felt, he " had nothing on that would spoil." Indeed, 
strange as it may seem, the awe naturally produced by such a 
storm seemed to affect the young men less than would have 
been expected. When Charlie spoke about " nothing on that 
would spoil," Raeburn, sighing, said to himself, " I wish we 
had." They sought the darkest corner of the summer-house, 
seemed anxious to get behind each other, but somehow could 
not hit it — stroked their chins, and winced at their unshaven 
roughness — felt " asses " in not bringing their " tweeds " when 
coming such a distance — looked ruefully on the garb they 
had lately laughed heartily at. The missing buttons, boasted 
of a week ago, were sadly missed now. Both felt ill at ease, 
but needlessly, for the ladies, huddled closely together, buried 
their faces on each other's shoulders, overawed by the ele- 



Glentirlic. 39 

mental war, and only half conscious that others shared their 
shelter and danger. 

A lull enabled Charles Baillie to see the mansion-house. 
He darted off, saying, "Stay, Frank, I'll fetch wraps." Frank 
would have been off too, had not a timid voice said, " Oh ! 
do stay one of you ! " Before Charlie reached the house the 
storm broke out afresh^ but at the door he found an elderly 
gentleman in a state of great excitement, who anxiously asked, 
" Have you seen two young ladies '*" 

** They are in the summer-house, and safe ; my companion 
is with them." 

" Thank God," was the fervent reply. 

" I will gladly take haps and umbrellas." 

" Not yet, not now," said a lady from the front room, 
"Come in and tell us exactly how they are." 

" I am dripping all over," replied Baillie. " They are 
quite sheltered from the rain, and as composed as could be ex- 
pected. It seems abating;" and, as the servants appeared with 
cloaks and umbrellas, he started with a huge armful, saying, 
" I will fetch them whenever they dare venture." The lull 
continuing, the ladies were hurriedly, and, dare we say, 
clumsily muffled up by the young men. They were new to 
the business and a little nervous, while the ladies were 
excited and flurried. Baillie started for the house with one 
under his care ; before they had gone half-way the storm 
raged afresh, Fanny clutched him in terror, but walked firmly. 
Raeburn followed instantly with the more timid of the two, 
who grasped him convulsively ; indeed, he had almost to carry 
her. And oft-times, in after years, the two spoke of the cour- 
age and thrill with which these terrified grasps inspired them. 



40 Pot Pourri. 

Hearty tlianks were rained upon the two heroes, which, 
they said, were quite uncalled for. 

Hospitality was urgently pressed upon them, but they 
could not be persuaded to leave the lobby, giving as a reason 
their dripping garments. Baillie was honest enough to check 
himself, when saying dripping. Dry clothing was offered, but 
Frank's fancy pictured how his old " rig " would look at a 
stranger's kitchen fire, and what conclusions it might suggest. 
They pled the danger of wet clothes, in which the lady of the 
house feelingly but reluctantly acquiesced ; that the storm 
might break out afresh, swollen rivers, ignorant of the 
locality, anxiety about their absence, &c. 

They were allowed to depart, not before they had dis- 
covered that there was a committee-and-club acquaintanceship 
between Mr Melville and themselves ; that, in society phrase, 
they knew about, if they did not know each other. The fishers 
promised to lunch at Dunlimpie on Saturday, Mr Melville 
placing at their disposal his preserved water. Mrs Melville 
impressed upon them the necessity of going straight home, 
and getting a " dry change ; " and, just as they were leaving, 
Miss Melville came tripping down stairs, and thanked them 
heartily in her own name, and that of her cousin Lucy (who 
desired to be excused owing to a headache), for their presence 
and help. 

The two started homewards, tramped over soft roads, 
staggered through][swollen burns, but the storm had passed 
and the sun shone clearly. In the course of their walk, an 
artist looked up from his easel as they passed, and hailing 
them, offered to give them what would pay their night's 
lodgings, if they would stand till he sketched them. They 



Glentirlie. 41 

winced, thanked him, and moved on, thinking much, but 
saying- httle. 

When they reached Gentirhe, they quickly carried out Mrs 
Melville's motherly suggestions, and each looked ruefully at 
the moist heap of old body companions, to which they now 
bade farewell, with less regret than they would have thought 
possible a week ago. Baillie muttered something like 
" childish — a mistake — -a fiasco." Frank put his foot firmly 
on the heap, and said " tomfoolery — all very well, but — 
' pay night's lodgings.' Mountebanks in earnest." 

Each quietly told Mattie to clear out the old clothes and 
give them away. Her reply was blunt but telling. 

" If I can get ony body to tak them; if no, they'll make 
grand scrubbing claiths. I didna like ye wi' them. It's a* 
very weel to gang gizzartin' at an odd time, but ye werena 
wise-like, and ye may be glad that ye didna get into company 
that wad a' made ye think black burnin' shame o' your haveral 
fancy. There's a gude midst in a' thing, an' past that's 
neither safe nor fendible." 

Litde did Mattie think that she was treading heavily on 
sore corns, or that her auditors felt that no one could have 
expressed their sentiments and experience better. Each re- 
collected some important business requiring him to return to 
town. Neither said it was as much a matter of wardrobe as 
of business, but " Dawtie " and the railway together brought 
them to Edinburgh by an early train on Friday. 

They did not rush to their chambers, as men on important 
business usually do. By different routes they reached the 
hairdresser's together, and wanted " not much off but nicely 
trimmed." They also met accidentally at a clothier's, each 



42 Pot Pourrl. 

wishing a knickerbocker suit, certain in the afternoon. Of 
course the man of cloth " was afraid," " hardly time," but 
suddenly recollected suits, ordered for gentlemen out of town 
for some time ; and the extra guinea he charged consoled him 
for the " fear of disappointing good customers." They spent 
some time in their " apartments " (where they appeared to the 
surprise of their landladies), and packed their portmanteaus as 
if for a long and special journey. They found " will return 
^t 3-3^ " stuck on the door of their " chambers," walked 
off as if the iviportant business did not lie there, and reached 
Glentirlie in the evening. 

At the tea-table they appeared in their new suits, greatly 
to Mattie's delight. " Ye're like yoursels now, gentlemen ; I 
like ye in thae claes. If I was a man I wad gie ye the 
' tailor's nip.' I tried three tramps wi' your auld duds, but 
they wadna tak' them, so I got the young shepherd to put 
them into the pitatie field at the back o' the house for ' tattie 
bogles.' " 

In their evening walk they recognised the venerable gar- 
ments doing duty as scarecrows, but the hats were exchanged, 
and, (this is private), they filled their new pockets with stones, 
and put a few marks of wear on their suits, to take away 
the fresh look, for which Mattie all but scolded them as 
" menseless craturs, spoilin' their new claes a' ready." 




! 



Glentirlie. 43 



Chapter III. 

Charles Bah.lie and Frank Raeburn were well-built, muscu- 
lar, handsome, young- fellows ; the knickerbockers set off 
their sturdy persons and limbs. When they reached Dun- 
limpie they were cordially received at the doorstep by Mr 
Melville, and in the parlour by the ladies of the household, 
where they were warmly thanked by Mrs Melville, and each 
by the lady he had " rescued." Fanny making- Baillie blush 
by her bright heartiness, and her cousin, Lucy Crawford, set 
Frank's heart "a-dunting" as she praised his courage and 
kindness, while a tear trembled in her eye. Poor Frank was 
struck dumb, Baillie stammered out, "It was nothing at all 
— a pleasure — they were the indebted parties for the shelter," 
and, in a very short time, all felt like old friends. 

The fishers seemed in no hurry to go to the preserved 
water. There was a talk about the storm, and some damage 
done by the lightning to an old tree, prized for the odd rea- 
son that it bore the name of the "gallows tree" of Dun- 
limpie ; and, as the day was fine, the tree was visited, and 
Baillie's knowledge of botany incidentally revealed, which 
led to a walk through the garden. 

Mr Melville and Fanny had many questions to ask him 
regarding various shrubs and flowers that had long puzzled 
them. Baillie knew these well, and explained each minutely. 

Frank, spying his old shelter, and not being interested in 
botany, said to Miss Crawford, 

" Charlie is on one of his hobby-horses, and off at the 
gallop, he is an eminent botanist." 



44 Pot Pourri. 

"That will delight Uncle and Fanny; they have several 
rare plants and varieties they cannot find out about." 

" And will equally delight Charlie. It will be something 
very unusual if he does not know the name, nature, and 
' habitat' of every plant he sees, giving long names to common 
weeds. I know him of old. Start him on botany with a good 
listener (not my forte), and farewell fishing and everything 
else. Would you object to show me our old shelter, the 
summer-house ? " And without waiting for a reply, he 
walked into it. 

No one seemed to have been there since the storm, for on 
the floor lay the joint fishing pocket-book of the two fishers. 
Frank looked at it, Miss Crawford picked it up, hoping " they 
did not miss it yesterday." Frank was tickled at not having 
missed it either yesterday or that morning, and said, " We 
were not fishing yesterday,"' adding internally, ** for various 
ofood reasons." 

" See how pleased Uncle and Fanny are," said Lucy, 
brightly. " Your friend seems to have solved, or to be 
solving, a question that has puzzled every one they have 
consulted. Uncle will be delighted." And she told that 
he was her mother's brother ; that her father had been an 
Admiral in the Royal Navy ; that father and mother were 
dead ; that Uncle and Aunt \vere both to her, and if possible 
more ; and that Fann\- was so brio^ht and clever, that she 
often felt ashamed of herself being so stupid. 

" I don't like clever people," said Charlie ; " well, not 
quite that, I am sometimes afraid of them, or rather ashamed 
of myself before them, which I am sure you need never be. 
Yet Frank Raeburn and I are the best of friends, and in his 



Glentirlie. 45 

absence I have no hesitation in calh'ng him a noble, upright, 
clever fellow." 

At the close of Charles Baillie's explanation about a rare 
and curious plant, Miss Melville, looking about, said, 
" Where is your friend ? " 

" I saw Frank make for the summer-house, which did him 
and me such a good turn the other day. He has not much 
patience with the exact sciences, but is as shrewd a fellow on 
many other matters as is in Edinburgh, as genuine as ever 
breathed — good-heartedness embodied." 

The bell for luncheon cut short conversation which had 
incidentally led the young men to speak of one another, but 
at table each justified the other's words. All found they had 
many friends in common, and a distant Scotch cousinship was 
partly unravelled between Mrs Melville and Frank Raeburn, 
for the three botanists formed one group, and Mrs Melville, 
Lucy, and Charlie another. 

" There is another plant or two I should like your opinion 
about," said Mr Melville, rising, "but I must not keep you 
from fishinof." 

" I should like to see the plant," said Baillie. 

" I am not particular about fishing," added Raeburn. 

" Perhaps the gentlemen would like to visit Kilcoungo," 
said Mrs Melville. 

" Kilcoungo ? " said Baillie. " Is it a Culdee or a Catholic 
foundation ? From the terminology ' oungo ' it seems Culdee, 
for they had Mungos and Beugos and Bungos and Cad- 
zows. By all means let us go there — is it far ? Can't we 
all go ? " 

" You seem to have got on yonr hobbyhorse now," said 



46 Pot Pourri. 

Miss Crawford. "It is little more than a mile distant, but 
not in the direction of the best fishing " 

" That's no matter. There is an old legend of an early- 
saint coming to Scotland from Cong in Ireland, but his cell is 
not known. Let us all go ; " and in a few minutes they were 
walking up a pretty glen, with sides so steep that the gentle- 
men had to assist the ladies in rugged places. On reaching a 
broad, open space, Frank's practised eye picked out what 
seemed the site of an old chapel or cell, and on examination 
he found several interesting evidences of its antiquity, and of 
tumuli around it. Baillie also found some rare ferns, mosses, 
and ancient medicinal herbs. Mr Melville was delighted, 
and proposed that next week the interior should be cleaned 
out and examined, which was readily agreed to. The 
*' preserved water " was again referred to, but the day was 
so bright and the surroundings so tempting, that the party 
rambled and climbed, enjoying distant views and fairy nooks. 
Dinner-hour had arrived before they got back to Dunlimpie ; 
the visitors were easily prevailed on to join the party, and 
all went " merry as a marriage bell." 

Our heroes reached Glentirlie in high glee, and Mattie 
" was glad they had been ' sae weel put on,' for Dunlimpie 
was a real gentleman, and the young ladies awfu' nice. It was 
a gude thing they found out that young Goldie and Walker 
were just gamblers. They stayed here a while, and it was 
aye bet-bettin' an' wagerin', an' ither kinds o' bad conduct. 
It gied the young leddies a sair heart at the time, but it 
was a providential escape. They're owre't noo. Nae 
leddies deserve better men, and nae men could get better 
wives." The gentlemen quite agreed with her, and thought 



Glentirlie. 47 

a good deal about Dunlimpie and its denizens ever there- 
after. 

The ransacking of Kilcoungo took two days. Several 
antiquarian treasures were found : old cists, pieces of primitive 
pottery, stone or flint weapons, besides broken fonts and 
other evidences of ancient saintship. Frank reserved his full 
opinion until he had consulted some authorities, and compared 
the relics with others in the Antiquarian Museum. Mr 
Melville felt sure that the place had been an early church, 
for the fathers always selected the cosiest place in the district. 
Baillie suggested that they should meet Frank at tlie museum, 
to which all agreed. Again the "preserved water" was un- 
visited, for the garden of Dunlimpie kept Baillie and Miss 
Melville fully occupied, while Frank and Miss Crawford pre- 
ferred the summer-house, Mr Melville alternately botanizing 
with the former and sitting beside the latter, anxious to con- 
firm his idea that there was a real, ancient, ecclesiastical edifice 
on his estate of Dunlimpie. 

The visit to the Antiquarian Museum was duly paid. 
Frank's thorough knowledge of its contents surprised Baillie, 
and delighted the others. They formerly had thought the 
place dry and musty, but now it teemed with interest. They 
found ample evidence that Kilcoungo was a real Culdee's cell, 
and some of the " finds " indicated its existence for over a 
thousand years. 

The young men were occasional, almost regular (some 
people said frequent) visitors at Mr Melville's town house — 
Frank being a special favourite of Mrs Melville's, because he 
was always ready to be a fourth at whist, allowing Mr 
Melville and Baillie to discuss trees, and plants, and flowers. 



48 Pot Pourri. 

The young folks often met accidentally (?) in the Royal 
Academy's Exhibition, and, for a time, Frank and Miss 
Melville studied, at least talked about the pictures, while 
Charles and Lucy walked quietly round, but said little. 
Fanny told Lucy that Mr Raeburn rattled on so fast she 
was confused, Lucy that Mr Baillie was so quiet she felt 
awkward. Next time they met in the Academy the ladies 
changed partners, to the great delight of all, for Baillie was 
carried away by Miss Melville's pat catching of the artistic 
hits, while Lucy was charmed with Raeburn's happy knack 
of making the bits glow and tell. That night Fanny told 
Lucy that she did like Mr Baillie, and Lucy, kissing her 
fondly, said, " So do I Mr Raeburn." If the young men had 
overheard them it would have saved them many an anxious 
thought. 

Charles Baillie sedately reasoned the matter out — whether 
to ask Miss Melville or her father first ; he thought the 
former best, but prepared himself for either. They met, 
accidentally really, in a railway carriage — the distance was 
short — between Waverley and Haymarket Stations, Edin- 
burgh. As the train started a lightning flash, followed by a 
terrific peal, made Miss Melville start and involuntarily cling 
to Baillie ; when they came out at Haymarket Station he had 
her sanction to " ask papa ; " and, at rather a late hour that 
evening he burst into Frank Raeburn's apartments, and with- 
out preface, said, " Frank, 1 am engaged to Fanny Melville." 
Frank all but hugged him : " Bravo ! Bless you ! Bless her ! 
Bless you both ! ! You are a lucky fellow — again, bless you 
both ! ! " Then looking ruefully (a new aspect for him), he 
said, " Frank, I have Lucy Crawford on the brain — she's — 



Glentirlie. 49 

she's — she's — tuts, I'm raving — I don't think I could make 
her happy — I do not deserve her." 

" Neither do / Fanny," said Bailhe ; *' but she thinks other- 
wise. Why don't you try Lucy ? " 

" I have schemed, and thought, and wondered, and re- 
solved, and wished, but the more I do the more I shrink ; 
she's such a — tuts ! — and I am such a — a — a — " 

" Excuse slang, Frank — ' a duffer.' You could make 
Miss Crawford happier than any man on earth, and she 
would make you " 

"Stop, Charlie ; don't tantalise me." 

" I will not stop, Frank ; you used to be the rattle, and I 
the slow coach. Come along with me to-morrow night, and 
congratulate Miss Melville (if you can). You may get a 
quiet chat with Miss Crawford." 

The " chat" proved quiet enough ; for, very shortly after 
he had congratulated Miss Melville, she and Charlie with- 
drew, not before Fanny had said, " Mr Raeburn, I feel so 
happy that I wish Lucy was in a similar position," and Charlie 
had said, " Ditto, for my doubting friend Raeburn." 

It would be unpardonable to intrude too much on the 
perplexed couple. Frank spoke about Kilcoungo and Dun- 
limpie, and the summer-house — Miss Crawford added in joke, 
"and the preserved fishings." 

Frank laughed almost sadly, and abrupdy said, " Miss 
Crawford " — then he paused, blushed, and jerked out — '' What 
a lucky fellow Baillie is, he has fished to purpose. I wish I 
could hope for equal luck. Dare I — excuse me, Miss 
Crawford, but dare I — ask you to make me as happy — as 
Charlie is " 

D 



50 Pot Pourri. 

Lucy hung her head, was silent for a while, then whispered, 
" Yes, Frank dear, if aunt and uncle consent." 

Baillie was in ecstacies for some time, then the serious 
matter of asking aunt and uncle's consent appalled him. 

Fanny relieved him of the trying ordeal, and, at the supper 
table, Frank sat beside Lucy Crawford as his affianced bride. 
Lucy Melville, although only a day in advance, felt quite at 
home with Charlie. Mrs Melville made stringent conditions 
that she was to have a visit from both after their marriage, 
at least once a week, and Mr Melville felt much alone, yet 
very highly pleased. 

We need not linger over what remains of our stor}-. 
Marriage presents flowed in, until Mrs Melville's drawing-room 
was like an exhibition. One, however, must have honourable 
mention. About a fortnight before the marriage, Captain 
Webber and Lieutenant O'Hara were announced as wishing 
to see Miss Crawford, and, following the servant who an- 
nounced them, right into the dining-room, they bowed all 
round, then, addressing Miss Crawford, presented her, in the 
name of those who had served under her father, the dear, old 
Admiral, with a gold anchor, glittering in diamonds and 
emeralds, and with a superabundance of gold chain. 

Captain Webber, a thorough English tar, hoped "that her 
joys would be as deep as the ocean, and her sorrows as light 
as its spray." 

Lieutenant O'Hara, a genuine Irishman, wished "that 
their path would be strewn with roses as they walked, hand in 
hand, over the stormy ocean of life." The tars joined the supper 
table, and spun yarns about the good old Admiral till a late or 
early hour. 



Glentirlie. 51 

Not infrequently Frank and Charlie met in " houses to 
let," once or twice in those to "sell;" but why prolong our 
tale further than to tell that they had grand times of it at 
Dunlimpie during the season. The summer-house was a 
favourite resort, but only two were in it at one time. The 
" preserved water " was visited, strolled about, but not fished. 
Mattie of Glentirlie was promoted to be housekeeper, almost 
companion, to Mrs Melville, after the )'oung couples had 
started on the honeymoon ; and often, when they visited either 
town or country house, she reminded the gentlemen of the 
scarecrows in the potato field at Glentirlie. 



A Ballade of Tobacco Smoke 

WHAT fretting loads we mortals bear 
Through life, whose fading rainbows mock, 
And Time who drives a splendid pair 

Of steeds he never will unyoke, 
Sweeps his lean fingers through our hair, 

He scarcely leaves a decent lock, 
Yet chide him not, if still he spare 

The dreams seen through tobacco smoke. 

We each must have our little care 

To add by contrast to our joke, 
A laugh that spreads in vain its snare 

To catch the lips of solemn folk. 
Well, let us walk through all the fair. 

And watch the crowds that swa)' and shock ; 
They follow what we see elsewhere — 

The dreams sec7i through tobacco smoke. 

Dreamers of dreams in ships of air, 

Whose keels have never enter'd dock, 
I wish you may have sounder ware 

Than did Alnaschar when he woke ! 
Statesmen, when strife is high, forswear 

For half-an-hour the wordy stroke, 
1 fain would hint of better fare — 

The dreams seen throns'h tobacco smoke ! 



A Ballade of Tobacco Smoke. 



53 




Prince, when you weary of the chair 

From which you govern reahns and folk, 

Your faithful bard would have you share 
The dreams seen through tobacco smoke ! 



(2. Ui^Ju^Hj^ 




A Sunny Morning in my Garden 




HAT dependent creatures we are after 
all ! Nature has us in thrall, and in 
her chano-inof moods can make of us 
what she will ! 

How briofht the world and all its 
uses seems on a morning- such as this, 
when it is a perfect gladness to be alive ! 

The sun has been up for hours, and his pro- 
gress is most royal. He brooks no barrier in his 
way, there is not even the fleeciest film of summer 
cloud to dim his splendour. Matchless and radiant is the 
sky, and blue, blue the summer sea. The little waves break 
yonder on the pebbl)' shore, with scarcely a murmur or a sigh. 
But I am at my south window to-day, and am looking out 
upon my garden, to me a pleasant place, although beginning 
now to wear the pensive grace of autumn. 

You who revel in ancestral parks and walk proudl)- among 
your gay parterres, would smile in mild derision at my little 
garden, but I question if your lordly pleasaunce is a source of 
as real delight to you as this tiny provincial strip is to me. It 
is veritably a strip, with a straight and solemn path dividing it. 
You can take it all in at one glance, and count the blossoms 
without difficulty, but though it is small and narrow, and 
altogether beneath your contempt, it is full of friendliness and 



A Sunny Morning in my Garden. 55 



honesty and good purposes for me. Of course it is not my 
ideal ; from the recesses of tenderest memory I will draw you 
a picture which represents the garden of my childhood. It 
was very long and wide, with a low mossy wall running all round 
it, and a little green wicket gate so little used that it creaked 
always on its hinges. It was intersected all through by 
shady, grassy walks under the shade of gnarled and laden 
apple trees ; it had great untidy fantastic flower beds, shut in 
by borders of boxwood grown nearly as high as a hedge. Do 







^^" " T 



you know what grew in these beds ? Perhaps you know some 
cottage garden which will furnish the almost forgotten names 
— mint and rosemary and thyme, bachelor's buttons and 
southernwood and nancy-pretty, Canterbury bells, lupins and 
tiger lilies ; nothing fine or rare or conspicuously lovely, yet 
we loved them all. 

I have not seen that old garden, though it is not very 
remote, these many years ; memory is sweeter than the vision 
of a change which may be. Strange feet now step across 



56 Pot Pourri. 

the threshold of the old house, and strange hands perhaps 
have made the green wicket swing silently to and fro. 

Many were wont to laugh at our old garden, and to say 
banteringly it grew splendid weeds, but though it had not the 
vestige of respectability about it, the hearts of children, now 
scattered far and wide, have memories of it wholly sacred. 

Memory is alwa)'s with us, and silentl}', day by day, we add 
to her storehouse. Although she has some bitter roots among 
her bundle of herbs, what would life be without her sweet 
companionship ? How awful if our happy days departed 
from us at sunset wholly and utterl)-, as if they had never 
been ; how barren and arid then would be the desert of exist- 
ence ! Memory, then, we constantly bless and cherish, grow- 
ing more anxious as we step on and upward that we should 
sow what will give us a harvest such as shall not make us 
ashamed. 

The heart clings persistently to earliest memory ; how im- 
portant then that those who have children to care for should 
make these early days conspicuously bright. 

Oh ! there is enough awaiting these young hearts, enough 
spirit-anguish and heart-weariness to satisfy the grimmest 
mentor. Let them at least have sunshine trildino- that child- 
hood which is never forgotten. 

Am I moralising too seriously in my garden this sunny 
morning ? Well, well ; there is nothing incongruous between 
the brightness of this sweet day, and my plea for the child- 
ren's happy environment. So we come back quite naturally 
to where we began, that nature is a great deal to us, and has 
something comforting and strengthening for us in our most 
wayward moods. 



I 



A Sunny Morning in my Garden. 57 

She is very gentle with us too ; her touch when sorrows 
fall thick and fast upon us is divinest healing. She has her 
merry moods likewise, but she reveals herself only to those 
who love her, and seek to commune with her. And that 
communion is not exclusive or difficult of access, but is open 
always to the seeking eye and ear, the sympathetic mind, and 
the simple, earnest heart. This sympathy with nature brings 
to the human heart courage and forbearance and loving- 
kindness with an understanding of simple goodness which 
makes life a perpetual joy. 




"La Tombe dit a la Rose" 




From Victor Hugo. 

s^HE Tomb said to the Rose, 

" Those tears the mornings weep 
Into thy petals deep, 
What does love's flower with those ? " 

^ The Rose said to the Tomb, 

" And thou, what dost thou — say !- 
With that 'vhich day by day 
Drops in Thy gulf of gloom ? " 

The Rose said, " I do this: — 
Out of those tears I make 
A soul of perfume wake — 
Honey and ambergris." 

'' Poor flower," the Tomb said, " I 
Out of each life that slips 
Mute through my earthen lips, 
Make a winged soul on high." 



* AT^ /^ /(L^uz^. 



The Truth about I>ambs 



IN this matter-of-fact nineteenth century it behoves us to 
guard zealously the little of the poetic which has not 
been driven away by the demon steam. 

My regard for poetry and poets is only exceeded by my 
love of, and sympathy for, the humid and rheumatic Goddess 
of Truth, who has been forced to take up her abode in a well ; 
and it is in order to prevent any further waste of sympathy or 
love on an unworthy object, that I intend telling the truth 
about lambs. 

However unworthy the object on which we place our 
affection may be, we do not thank those who remove the 
scales from our eyes ; we do not like to see our idol broken, 
and discover that it is made of clay. I hope, however, that 
the reader will defer his judgment on me till he has read my 
experience, when I shall have more hope of being excused, or 
having my offence palliated. 

I can scarcely control myself to speak calmly on the sub- 
ject, when I think of, or try to imagine, the amount of sym- 
pathy and love which has " from time immemorial " been 
wasted on these unworthy objects ; and it is the poets who 
are principally to blame for rousing our sympathy and 
affection. 



6o Pot Pourri. 

Poets have chosen lambs as the emblems of innocence and 
peace, and they never were further from the truth. 

It grieves me to disturb the proverbs of centuries, to strip 
the lamb of its false covering, and show up the ignorance of 
poets. 

What do poets know of nature ? Thomson wrote of the 
beauties of a sunrise, when it is well known he usually 
had breakfast in bed. They have written of " The 
ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song " as some- 
thing enchanting, which only shows their utter disregard 
for truth, or their entire want of an ear for music. I have 
heard both, and they are extremely vulgar, and I hope to 
be spared the infliction again. Let a poet sit through a 
Harvest Home, and he will change his mind, but " revenons 
a nos moutons." 

Last spring I spent a good deal of time in the company of 
lambs, and my opinion, formed on close observation, is that 
they are the most selfish, idiotic, discontented, and combative 
animals on the face of the earth, leaving the following to 
support my assertion. 

When a lamb is about a week old it discovers that its 
mother is a lunatic, with one idea, and that is its lamb, and 
instead of returning its mother's love, it abuses it. Another 
lamb, which we will call B, comes to play with lamb A, when 
^'s mother, fearing her offspring will be contaminated by such 
company, knocks over B with a box in the ribs. A naturally 
thinks it belongs to a superior set, and condescendingly visits 
lamb B, only to discover that i^"s mother holds similar 
opinions about its lamb, this reflection being made by A 
when it is knocked on its back. 



The Truth about Lambs. 



6i 



A gets up and runs bleating to its mother, and gets a 
drink, and as the milk gets scarce it digs its mother with its 
little horns ; the mother, thinking it is time to stop, lies down 
for a rest, when the lamb climbs on her back, planting its sharp 
little hoofs between its mother's ribs, till the mother has to 
rise, when the lamb goes for another drink. 




A lamb pays no attention to its mother unless it wants a 
drink, which it usually does every few minutes. 

As soon as a lamb can walk straight on its clumsy legs it 
looks about for a smaller lamb to box, when the smaller lamb 



62 Pot Pourri. 

is not looking. This is the nearest approach to humour in a 
lamb's composition, 

A lamb's legs look as if they had been made for its big 
brother, and it is as proud of them as a boy is of his first 
trousers. It tries to gambol, the result being, like a stool 
under the influence of spirit rapping, it throws its hind legs 
a few inches up into the heavens, and fancies it is fit for a 
circus. 

I was beside some sheep in a shed where they had more 
good turnips and hay than they could eat, and leaving the 
gate open, they rushed out and ate ravenously at rotten 
turnips which had been thrown aside as useless. This is the 
only human trait I have observed in sheep. 

After I had been about a week painting a picture of sheep 
and lambs, I laid down my pallette on the camp stool, and 
walked out of the shed to have a smoke, and a talk with a 
young girl who attended to the cows, and was just in the 
middle of an interesting conversation when she said, 

" I think the sheep have knocked over your picture." 

I thought she was only saying it to frighten me, but when 
1 did go back I found my easel and canvas flat on the ground, 
and a lamb on the top of the picture, smelling if it was painted 
in oil or water colour. I drove them back, making some 
remarks which I do not remember now, and started to scrape 
the canvas, when the head of the lamb's mother came into 
violent collision with me, and I don't believe any artist ever 
before got through a picture of the size in such a short time, 
and it was completely finished. At the same time one cannot 
fail to see the want of anything like justice in that sheep 



The Truth about Lambs. 



63 



butting me for trying to prevent the lamb from injurinq- my 
property. 

I hope I have justified my assertion, and if the reader can 
now enjoy his roast lamb and mint sauce without compunction, 
I have not lived in vain. 





The Beautiful 



I. 

HE mystery of Loveliness, that lies, 

Like light from some diviner heaven than ours. 
On visible Nature : mountains, streams and 
flowers, 
On man's proud front, in depths of woman's eyes ; 
The mystery of Loveliness, that is 
The Law of Nature's being : moulding all — 
The measureless great, the infinitely small — 
To its own perfect beauty. What is this 
But the translation of God's inmost thought ? 
And that is Love ; Nature the mighty scroll 
Whereon 'tis writ. Thou readest it, my soul ! 
Each sacred syllable, yet graspest not, 
Save in dim gleams, the message written there. 
Though questioning evermore in Work and Prayer. 



n. 

Yet, O my soul ! thank God that He hath sent. 
In loving answer to thy life-long cry, 

These shadowings of the holier Mystery 
Behind the veil — for rapturous moments rent 
As by a still, small voice from highest heaven. 



The Beautiful. 65 



If thou with feeble hand and care-clogged brain 

Through life's grey clouds hast groped — alas ! in vain — 
To catch their import, thou at least hast striven ; 
And, striving, won the guerdon ne'er denied 

To those who battle bravely — though they fail. 

For such one day the Angel calm and pale 
With tender hand will draw the veil aside, 
And they shall stand within the Holy Place, 
And read the Secret in The Master's face. 




The Gypsy Wooer 

THE young lords rade frae east and west, 
Sae blithe were they and bonny, 
And all to court our lady gay, 
For she was best of ony. 

The young lords rade to east and west, 

Wi' heavy dule and grieving, 
Their hearts were wae, for she said them nay, 

And bade them cease their deaving. 

She looked frae her bower window, 

The sun it shone sae brightly, 
An' over field and over fell 

A gypsy steppit lightly. 

The gypsy man cam doun the brae. 
An' clear his pipes were singing 

An outland sang as wild and fey 
As Elfin bridles ringing. 

O whiles the sang went wud wi' joy. 

And whiles it sorrowed sairly ; 
The saut tear stood in our lady's ee, 

It rang sae sweet and rarely. 



The Gypsy Wooer. 67 

" An' are ye come at last ? " she said, 

" An' do I see and hear ye ? 
If this be no my ain true love 

Then nane shall be my dearie. 

" An' where hae ye been sae lang ? " quo she, 

" An' why cam ye ne'er before, O ! 
If ye be no my ain true love, 

My heart will break for sorrow." 

O never a word the gypsy said, 

And naething- did he linger, 
But his een laughed bright as he turned his head. 

And beckoned wi' his finpfer. 

She's casten off her silken snood, 

And taen her mantle to her, 
An' she's awa to Silverwood, 

To follow the gypsy wooer. 



/Cf^^^ 




An Old World Matter 



IN the old world of Edinburgh, when the High Street, 
the Canongate, and the Cowgate. with their adjacent 
closes, constituted the royal burgh, it was not often that 
anything occurred to disturb the still and tranquil life 
of the peace-loving citizens. No visit of royalty had 
taken place since the time of Charles I. True, the Royal 
Commissioners walked (literally then) on the opening of the 
General Assembly ; but at the time of which I write, the 
" walking " or procession of Parliament had long since been 
discontinued, and Edinburgh, the metropolis of Scotland, 
could boast of little excitement or bustle beyond that of any 
provincial city in the kingdom. For all that, many of the old 
nobility still remained domiciled in the quaint turreted flats 
that frowned in the moonlight from either side of the High 
Street, and in the gatherings of the select, the " assemblies," 
and the weekly " concerts " of the " Musical Society," much 
blue blood as well as youth, beauty, and intellect gathered 
together to enliven w^hat must have been, upon the whole, a 
dull existence. The Pretender, with his ill-equipped followers, 
passed through the town in 1745. The romance attached to 
that fatal expedition has already been amply written. What 
the following brief narrative has to record is but a small 
matter concerning the history of two people of no more impor- 
tance than an actress and an actor, who, so far as Edinburgh 



An Old World Matter. 69 

counted, could certainly boast, after the manner of Caesar, 
that they came, were seen, and conquered. 

It was in the year 1762 that the Courant newspaper 
announced that " a oj-entlewoman will appear for the first time 
on the stage of this kingdom in four plays. Particular tickets 
(at the usual prices) will be printed, as no money will be 
received at the door." Such was the first announcement of 
the beautiful and fascinating Mrs Bellamy who, in London, 
had secured for herself at once a fame and a notoriety that 
have seldom been equalled, even in the annals of the stage. 

Fresh from the whirl of London excitement the previous 
year, she had visited Dublin, and there she met West Digges, 
an actor who, in addition to great personal recommendations, 
was possessed of genuine histrionic ability. She had been 
warned against Digges' persuasive tongue and insinuating 
manners ; but, possibly for that very reason, all the sooner suc- 
cumbed to the blandishments of a oentleman who had almost 
no equal in the power of persuading. While in Dublin they 
lived together happily enough ; but for some strange reason 
Mrs Bellamy had a strong dislike to Scotland, and swore 
(ladies did swear in those days) she would never act in that 
country. This she did, no doubt, knowing that Digges was co- 
lessee in the Edinburgh Theatre. He, however, was manager 
first and lover second, and so contrived to get her trans- 
ported to Edinburgh without her knowing where she was 
being taken to. Entering the town she enquired where she 
was ? to which the ready response came — " the Grassmarket," 
and in the simpleness of her soul she thought such was the 
name of a town. She was driven to a lodging in the Canon- 
gate, and while combing her hair a sound ofmusic saluted her 



yo Pot Pourri. 

ears. " What is that sound ? " she cried. " The theatre," re- 
plied her maid. At once seeing she had been trapped, she 
seized a pair of scissors and cut all her hair off quite close 
to her head, in order that she might be unable to appear. 
Such was the impulsive character of the lady, so it is not sur- 
prising that Digges soon persuaded her (no doubt after a 
stormy interview) to appear in the plays for which she had 
already been advertised. A wig supplied the place of the 
demolished hair, and a greater or more fashionable event in the 
local theatrical world had never been witnessed than her first 
appearance. The highest of the land filled the pit, while the 
boxes were packed with the first ladies in society, and it is 
said the servants in attendance were so many that they could 
not find room in the gallery — a portion of the house then 
exclusively reserved for such gentry. 

During her stay in Edinburgh Mrs Bellamy was /^/^c/ far 
beyond any actress who had preceded her. Everything 
that she could possibly want was hers if she only expressed a 
wish to have it ; yet her old character of improvidence never 
forsook her, and when she was on the eve of leaving Edin- 
burgh for Glasgow, where a theatre had been specially built 
for her to appear in, she found she had no money, and sent 
her maid to pawn a beautiful gold repeater which Digges 
had presented to her. The maid, luckless woman, took it 
to the identical watchmaker from whom it had been pur- 
chased not many days previously, but not paid for, and was 
immediately taken into custody. Mrs Bellamy remained 
sitting in her carriage for over an hour for the return of her 
messenger, until guessing what had happened, she drove to 
one of the Lords of Session, her friend, who not only gave 
her sufficient money, but got the girl instantly released, and 



An Old World Matter. 



71 



so enabled this charming actress, but frail woman, to proceed 
to Glasgow, where alas she found that the theatre which had 
been specially built for her to appear in, had been burnt to 
the ground the previous evening, by some over-zealous 
bigots of the Methodist persuasion, in obedience to the desires 
of their preacher, who had announced to them that he liad 
seen a vision commanding them to commit arson. 

The course of true love between Digges and Bellamy did 
not long run smooth. The following season they took a house 
in Bonnington (still standing), then an oudying village, 




■K-f ' 






--r''-"-^.-^ 



which had to be reached by way of the Horse Wynd, Low 
Calton, and Leith Walk, then a dismal country road or track. 
The only mode of conveyance was in chairs, very unsafe in- 
deed, considering the roads were of the roughest, the " bearers " 
seldom of the soberest, and the chance of meeting footpads 
not by any means remote. At Bonnington the twain lived in 
great luxury, but family feuds were not uncommon. One 
night the argument ran so high that Digges stripped off the 
most of his clothes and ran from the house with the intention 
of drowning himself in a pond near to the house. Mrs 
Bellamy surveyed the proceeding with the utmost coolness, 
and when he made his exit, calmly locked the door. The 



72 



Pot Pourri. 



result may be o^uessed, for the cold east wind and snow soon 
made the gentleman change his mind and repent his haste ; 
but when he returned and found the door barred against him, 
it was only by going down on his naked knees on the snow, 
and swearing all sorts of repentance, that he gained admittance 
at last to the cheerful glow of the fire, perhaps more essential 
under the circumstances than even the smiles and caresses of 
the authoress of his affliction, which, by the way, he certainly 
never deserved and never after secured. Sic transit gloria 
imindi. 




MR DIGGES IN THE CHARACTER OF SIR JOHN BRUTE. 




" OONS, GEl- YOU GONE UP STAIRS." 



Men and Books 



" The proper study of mankind is man."— POPK. 

TH E gods make living- poems ; what we write 
Is photograph, unreal shadowy stuff; 
Their words have wings of power and thews of might, 
Ours float like mist, and vanish with a puff. 
There are who love to pore o'er musty books. 
Scholars, who heap up stores of printed breath. 
And spell with painful care and peeping looks 
The quaint memorial blazonry of death. 
But let me read God's best of living books. 
The rosy child, with eyes of trustful blue, 
The lightfoot youth, the girl with radiant looks, 
Or, like thee, Gordon, the brave captain, who 
Leaps into danger, and sublimely rash, 
Turns panic into victory with a flash ! 



The Prayer of the Pompeian Mothei 



OH ! spare my child, ye Gods who dwell on high ! 
Ye gave him unto me ; — my only joy, 
Oh ! rain not ashes on my darling boy. 
Hear me, great Zeus, hear a mother's cry, 
For his dead father's sake let him not die ; 
Hear from his boyish lips the piteous cries ! 
Shield us from trembling ground, from falling skies. 
Cease but a moment, that we both may fly 
This choking sand, these reeling rocks and trees : 
Return once more thy sweet and balmy breeze, 
So that our parched tongues again may raise 
Before thy altar, songs of love and praise : 
Send us again the cheering light of heaven. 
And to thy service shall his life be given. 



C\) * 60 ' o)W^>-Ma/vc-vu 




THE POMPEIAN MOTHER 
SHIELDING HER CHILD FROM THE SHOWER OF ASHES. 

A.D. 79. 



l-ROM THE GROUP BY 

D. W. STEVENSON, R.S.A. 



An Easterly Har 



WE who have been dwellers in the East, — not the pic- 
turesque East of palm trees, camels and caravans, 
but the bleak East of our own little kingdom, — know what an 
easterly harr means, and we have been told on good authority 
where the visitor comes from. Erom the low lands of Hol- 
land the visitor travels to our coast, we are assured ; and we 
can believe it. We are not so well informed with regard 
to the origin of our enemy's name, though it is a singularly 
expressive and suitable name ; for while the thing itself is 
dim and misty, soft and fleecy, with a certain impalpability 
in its fleeciness, it has a rough edge ; it grates in the throat 
and the chest ; it cuts and pricks with a saw-like jaggedness 
wliich answers exactly to its strange title, to the two " r's " that 
end the word, which we pronounce with an emphatic zest, 
as a Northumbrian rattles his bur, "har-r." 

The season of the year when the harr was most apt to 
descend upon us was " the sweet spring time ; " a time not 
quite so sweet in the north and the east as in the south and 
the west, yet glad exceedingly in the lengthening daylight, 
the budding trees and hedges, the sprouting grass, the first 
lamb, the first daisy — a time all the brighter to the young 
and hale because it was keenly bracing in its brightness. 

Even so late as the month of May, during the General 
Assembly of the representatives of its national Churches, 



An Easterly Harr. 79 

when its streets, old and new, swarm with black coats, the 
grey metropolis of the north is not unacquainted with easterly 
harrs. But the Dutch invader recurs to our memory 
chiefly as it was wont to assail " country sides," when the 
young wheat showed a fresh, green braird in fields near 
the sea, above which the lark sang long before the bells 
of the golden cowslips nodded in the chill breeze over the 
pasture, or the primroses did more than lift up their meek, 
pale faces in the garden-borders. 

The infliction had a habit of presenting itself at any hour. 
It started with the sun, and rendered his beams watery and 
wan. After a bright morning, it fell upon us at high noon 
like a wet blanket, and shrouded the landscape for the 
rest of the day. It rose with a ghostly wraith-like appear- 
ance, and obscured the full moon. It was always densest 
nearest the sea, but it did not disdain to stretch a consider- 
able distance inland, creeping on with a stealthy motion, or 
suddenly descending after the fashion of the drop-scene of a 
theatre. It hid man and beast ; especially beast, — for a dog 
rashly running ahead disappeared in it, as if a cloud had 
come between the creature and his owner. Birds of the air 
were not only invisible, they became mute as fishes in the sea, 
under the influence of an easterly harr ; indeed, it was a 
singularly muffling, dulling process in nature resembling, so 
far, the hush of a snow-storm. 

The harr clung in a close, white drapery to trees; it 
swallowed up houses ; it obliterated hills. Standing on the 
shore, the presence of a boat was only known by the splash 
of the oars. Plodding along the Queen's highway, or 
stumbling over the deep ruts in a bye-road, the approach of a 



8o 



Pot Pourri. 



cart, or of one of the gigs of the day, or of a man or boy on 
horse-back, was not to be detected save by the rattle of the 
wheels, and the beat of the horses' feet. Such moving 
figures, looming gigantic in the magnifying medium, came in 
sight, and vanished with the astonishing celerity of a 
dissolving view. The commonest objects borrowed a weird 
aspect from an easterly harr. 

Dutch courage was wanted to face the " Hollander," for 




it froze the marrow in your bones, caused your breath to 
labour, hung your garments with drops of moisture, as of the 
heaviest night-dews. But it met you straight in the face, and 
was even puritanically fair and clean. Who, that has ever 
encountered the murky abominations of a London fog, w^ith 
the solid vileness of its pea-soup atmosphere, and its effect 
as of jaundice on every face exposed to it, would not choose 



An Easterly Harr. 8i 

a thousand times, in preference, the sharpest bite of an 
easterly harr. 

Then, as a rule, the reign of the foe did not last long — 
it went as unexpectedly as it came. It was gone before 
you knew where you were or it was. The winding-sheet, 
wrapping all creation in its folds, was transformed in the 
twinkling of an eye to a nun's veil, modest and demure. In 
another moment it too was changed. The sun's rays flashed 
forth and lit it up with silver radiance. It was no longer a 
sober vestal's veil, it was the veil of a blushing bride, ready to 
be flung back that she might receive the kiss of her eager 
bridegroom. For it is true that — 

" Old earth is fair, and fruitful and young, 
And her bridal-day will come ere long." 



^o^uUv T^CU^ 



The Poppy Blows 










TH E careful farmer ploughs and hoes ; 
The weeds he slays with ceaseless pains, 
And every idle flower that grows. 

Broadcast he sows his chosen grains ; 
His harvests whiten o'er the plains, 
S^i/l in his wheat the poppy bloivs. 



Forth to the world the prophet goes ; 

Of wrath and sin and grief he plains, 
To careless hearts denouncing woes : 
He damns the worldling and his shows. 

A rich reward for him remains ; 
Yet in his wheat the poppy blows. 



The Poppy Blows. 



83 



So He the human heart that sows, 
Untiring-, with His golden grains, 
Truth, Virtue, Love, with ceaseless pains, 

So vainly, often, — well He knows! — 
How patient that Great Heart remains, 

Though in His wheat the poppy blows ! 







"The Castled Rhine" 

" Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, 
One who dwelleth by the Castled Rhine." 

— Longfellow. 

WE are on the Rhine — the beautiful Rhine at last ! All 
the freshness of early summer is on the vine-clad 
hills and waving forests. The cuckoo still rings his queer 
note out from some ravine or leafy glade. If the Rhine 
country can ever look less than lovely, it is surely not in 
June! And we two islanders, who, free from desk and 
drudgery, stand to-day under an awning on board the good 
DampfscJiiff " Schiller," as it speeds up the shining river, 
are naturally in the very best of humours for appreciating it 
all, since this is the crowning holiday we have been looking 
forward to for years. What does it matter to us that everybody 
else seems to have "done" the Rhine? — that Brown, Jones, 
and Robinson, with their respective spouses and families, 
declare it to be hackneyed and over- rated ? " A nice enough 
run, )ou know ! Pleasant scenery, and no end of old castles ; 
all that sort of thing, certainly, but not a bit fresher than the 
Clyde ! " Well, perhaps it isn't, but it may be worth seeing 
for all that, surely ; so let them say any disagreeable things 
that occur to them, by all means ! IVe have no^ seen the 
Rhine ! 



''The Castled Rhine." 85 



I have called it a holiday, but it is a holiday with certain 
limitations. For what means that pile of books my comrade 
lugs along with him at every turn, as if his personal safety 
depends on the same ? They mean for me a considerable 
amount of work, — steady, absorbing, persevering work ! For 
my friend takes out his sketch-book, calmly remarking that 
it will take all his valuable time to catch an outline here and 
there, and so it will be as well if I take Baedekker in hand, 
and also look up the maps as we go along, if I don't mind ! 
Of course I have to say that "I don't mind," and I bend 
cheerfully to my task. But there is not only Baedekker, but 
a large selection of minor guide-books that have to be 
compared therewith, and a set of huge, unfolding maps that 
persist in fluttering wildly in the breeze, whenever you look 
them up, in the most exasperating manner. Before the first 
hour is over, what a flood of ancient history I have had to 
wade through ! From the days of Julius Caesar downwards, 
there is not a moment of repose for the earnest and enquir- 
ing tourist. He must face the iron legions and the conquer- 
ing eagles, crusading armies and marauding bands. No 
wonder if he turn sometimes with a sigh of relief to the bit 
of love-story, legend, or fairy-lore, Baedekker inserts as a sort 
of padding here and there. The student sadly needs some 
such refreshment. He finds something life-like and interest- 
ing in the two brother-knights who so provokingly fall in 
love with the very same lady ! She is a lady, however, 
whose beauty and fascinations are sufficient to account 
for any number of knights falling in love with her at the 
same time. 

How vivid, too, is the picture of the rash female who per- 



86 Pot Pourrl. 

sists in rushing- off to a convent — of the very strictest kind, 
of course, from which she can never again emerge — on hear- 
ing some maHcious on dit from Syria of her absent lover's 
faithlessness or death. No warrior is so safe to turn up 
again as that warrior. Don't we feel the most comfortable 
assurance that before we turn the page again Roland will be 
standing before us on the very ledge of the rock where his 
father's castle still stands ? And don't we know for certain 
that, however much appearances may have been against him, 
the languishing looks of Syrian belles have had no power over 
him, his heart having been with his adored Hildegunde all 
the time ? Here, however, hope and comfort end. We 
know only too well that it is "all up" with Hildegunde. 
The lady abbess will never let her out of her clutches in 
this world. All that remains for her Roland is to stand 
starinof down from that beetlino- cliff overhanorino- the convent 
— where, however, he has the prudence to build a neat stone 
edifice to shelter him in cold weather — until one mournful 
day the tolling of the convent bell shall announce to him 
that his beloved Hildecrunde is no more. How he knows 
that it is Hildegunde, and not one of the ordinary sisters, 
is a question that occurs to me as I read, but to which 
Baedekker gives no response. Perhaps he doesn't know 
himself! 

It is in this species of study that much of my time 
has been spent this morning, and pleasant as it sounds, 
I don't know that I have worked harder among books, 
histor)', and dates in particular since my school-days. Rut 
to proceed. 

It is said that there were originally sixty-six castles on 




" THE CASTLED RHINE. 



"The Castled Rhine." 89 



the Rhine, and of the residue we have already passed a 
goodly number, still perched jauntily enough upon their airy 
crags for all that time and warfare have done to destroy 
them. And we have gazed on the " Seven Mountains," a 
grand unfolding panorama, a blending of the lovely and the 
sublime, with the haunted " Drachenfels" as its crowning 
glory. Also we have seen Bonn — the old university town 
and the pleasant modern residence, and dozens of little 
villages dotting the green shores with mountains, rising so 
abruptly at their backs that one wonders they don't get 
toppled over into the water by these protecting giants. 
Each of these minor Dorfejt sends out its wooden jetty, or 
its tiny shallop with a flag flying from the stern, to meet the 
passing steamers. Ours is one of the slow boats, and we 
stop at every such call ; others go right on, only stopping 
when Coblentz is reached, then again at Bingen and May- 
ence, or such important places. 

But here is Coblentz, where we shall stay over night. 
The blue Moselle joins the Rhine's brown waters here. 
Truth to tell, the latter liquid is not merely brown, but 
decidedly " drumly." Yonder is the giant rock of Ehren- 
breitstein, with its well-kept fortress — a second Gibraltar — 
and also recalline Edinburgh Castle to the faithful denizen of 
"Auld Reekie." It is quite a fashionable, busy tourist re- 
sort now-a-days, this Coblentz — full of big hotels and noisy 
with touters. But there is the queer old church of St 
Castor, and a fine fountain, and the new parade along the 
river bank, to take up one's attention while we linger here. 
Besides, a good deal of pleasant boating may be done on the 
Moselle as well as on the Rhine itself. 



90 Pot Pourri. 

Another bright summer morning has just dawned upon us, 
and here we are breakfasting on the deck of the " Bismarck " — 
it seems that all the steamers are called after eminent Germans 
— puffing from Coblentz, and rapidly getting to a much more 
picturesque bit of the river than any we have yet seen. There 
are sterner hills and more rugged rocks, one of which, with a 
foaming whirlpool at its feet, is the far-famed Lorlei-berg 
itself. Alas ! the fatal syren who sang there so sweetly to 
infatuated boatmen has now departed for ever. And no 
wonder! The East Rhenish Prussia railway has bored a 
tunnel right through the base of her royal seat, and the shrill 
shriek of its engines must have proved too much for such a 
musical ear as hers ! 

Then yonder are the " Seven Sisters " just popping up their 
dark heads above water — seven huge blocks of stone, said to 
be the mortal remains of as many fair maidens who, having 
offended the river god by refusing various eligible young men 
— favourites of his, it is to be presumed — were thereupon 
turned into stone — a severe comment on the petrified condi- 
tion of their hearts previously ! Stalwart damsels indeed they 
appear to have been, and the gap thus created in the family 
circle must have been no slight one. 

But turning from these long past troubles we find ourselves 
looking v.'ith fresh interest on the Pfalz Castle, rearing its 
white walls from a low rock in mid-stream, then the many 
towers of Obcr-Wezel and the " Golden City " of Bacharach, 
so called from a supposed resemblance to Jerusalem. There 
stands the beautiful ruin of St Werner's Church, named after 
a boy martyr whose body was miraculously floated up the 
river to this spot. 



" The Castled Rhine." 91 

Another little round fortress rises now from a rocky bed 
in the river. It is the celebrated " Mause Thurm," or Mouse- 
tower, where a certain unamiable old bishop was devoured by 
mice after having" refused corn to his starving" people, and 
retired to this wave-guarded castle to enjoy himself in peace. 
" Amen," says the devout tourist, " so perish all such grasping 
souls!" And here is Bingen — that "calm Bingen on the Rhine," 
beloved of all amateur readers and reciters, rather a busy 
little place it seems to us ; and before long we are in Mayence 
or Maintz, where our pilgrimage up the river must end. We 
have been passing through wonderful ranges of vine-fields 
lately, clothing the hills on each side with their trim green 
rows and terraces, the Rheingau and Johannisberg being the 
largest and most famous. And here at Mayence we find 
a sort of emporium ready to receive the fine vintage of 
all these, and to disperse it through the world, for it is said 
there are more than six hundred wine merchants in that tiny 
city alone ! We have just time to run through Mayence 
and glance at its great cathedral, rich with golden shrines 
and massive sculptures, before returning to our quiet little 
retreat down the river, w^hich we had fallen in love w^th 
simultaneously, and at once selected for our resting place, — St 
Goar. 

Does anyone want to know of a sweet, quiet village on 
the Rhine, where he may fare well and cheaply, and enjoy 
the loveliest scenery, and be w^ithin ten minutes' walk of the 
very finest and largest of the sixty-six ruined castles ? By 
all means let him go to St Goar. It has the queerest little 
streets, and the quaintest old Kirciie, and the sweetest nook 
of a /'>/>«'//(?/ imaginable— a very garden of roses which might 



92 Pot Pourri. 

half disarm the king of terrors, where the gardener offers you 
a bunch of his finest Marechal Niel, and points to you the 
grave of some soHtary Enghshman, as if he divined at once 
what must interest you most. The old saint who gave his 
name to the place in the days gone by, is stated to have hung 
his cloak on a sunbeam — whether from any deficiency of pegs 
in his hermitage or not is left unchronicled — but one can fancy 
that something of that gentle power of his that prevailed even 
on the flickering sunbeams to wait upon him still lingers about 
the place of his dwelling, so attractive did St Goar appear to 
our eyes. 

And now we are saying good-bye, a long good-bye, to our 
queen of rivers. Looking regretfully on the brown waters at 
this quiet evening hour as we linger on its banks, we think of 
all the old stories and legends they have told us, and once 
again as the waves throb and wrestle among the reedy banks, 
we seem to hear the plash of long- forgotten oars. Is it the 
royal barge of Charlemagne coming slowly up the stream 
with floating banners and martial music ? or is it Queen 
Frastrada, in her coffin of glass, being silently drifted down 
towards Aix ? or is it the saintly Ursula and her many 
maidens ? And, yonder on the shore just behind us, may not 
that be the hoofs of Roland's palfrey bringing him back from 
the Holy Land once more ? 

The Rhine has all these visitants, and countless others 
for every listening ear, from early morning until dewy eve ; for 
she is a haunted river, and keeps her long train of olden-time 
spectres as royally as any olden-time castle with bolts and 
bars and rattling chains can do ! 

One recalls readily by her banks Alexander Smith's fine 



'' The Castled Rhine." 93 

poem about the Tweed at Peebles, making- one slight altera- 
tion to suit the name : 

" Who knows? but of this I am certain, 

That but for the ballads and wails 
That make passionate dead things, — stocks and stones, 

Make piteous hills and dales ; 
The Rliine were as poor as the Amazon, 

That for all the years it has rolled, 
Can tell but how fair was the morning red, 

How sweet the evening gold ! " 



//Jdi^a. K /'^oj^du. 




■^ 



USIC, on thy wide i)lumes thou 
bear'st me forth 
, . Into the Infinite I My spirit 

spurns 
Her mortal prison-house, and wildly yearns 
Towards the empyrean of her birth : 
The starry spaces whence in godlike mirth 
The Sons of Morning 'Jubilate ' sang, 
While from the void abyss Creation sprang. 
So this new heaven and diviner earth, 
Sprung from thy teeming depths, majestic 
Power ! 
I too would sing ! For on thy thunder-tide 
Upborne, in rapture of ecstatic pain 

From human weakness washed and jiurified, 
1 feel a god — with godhood's boundless 

dower ! . . . 
The music dies — and I am dust again. 



< 



•^^/^^' 




Bazaars 



THEIR OBJECT. 

THE object of bazaars is threefold : 
I. To give persons of moderate income an oppor- 
tunity of furnishing economically. 

2. For the encouragement of Art. At bazaars everything 
is hand-painted, from cigars to coal-scuttles. 

3. To please the men. 

woman's true mission. 

Most of us must at some time have asked our friends' wives 
how they could ever have married such men. The reason is 
that they wanted to marry and settle down to bazaar work. 

It does not so much matter whom a woman marries, the 
oreat thine is to ijet into a o-ood bazaar connection. 

If women sat in Parliament matters would be quite different. 
They would buy out the Irish landlords with a bazaar. 

The Emin Pasha Relief Committee (says a London corre- 
spondent) now regret bitterly that they sent no lady explorers 
with the Stanley Expedition. It is generally admitted at the 
clubs that had a lady been left with the Rear Guard she would 
have inaugurated a bazaar, sold hand-painted rice and tapioca 
to the natives for fowls, and diddled Tippu Tib out of all his 
vast possessions. 



96 Pot Pourrl. 



PREPARING FOR THE BAZAAR. 

Among the proudest moments in a man's life is when he 
exclaims to his wife, " What ! another bazaar ? " 

He now hurries home every evening from the office, con- 
fident that something more has been hand-painted since 
morning. It may be a table, or vases, or one dozen tobacco 
pouches, or two fire-screens. 

The articles are hand-painted in his private den, because it 
would be a pity to disarrange the other rooms. He does not 
object in the least to having to smoke on the door-step. 

If he is not doing anything particular would he mind hold- 
ing up this rocking-chair while she hand-paints it ? 

There are twelve young ladies coming to-morrow to hand- 
paint twelve mantelpiece borders. He will have to see them 
home. 

She writes twenty letters every day to ladies whose ad- 
dresses she finds in the directory, inviting them to co-operate. 
This makes many homes happy. 

She asks literary characters to write a little thing for the 
bazaar, because, though she does not know them personally, 
she is sure they are over-working themselves, and change of 
work (she has heard) is the best kind of relaxation. They 
consent with gratitude. 

During the three days prior to the bazaar her husband and 
his friends are allowed to carry the hand-painted articles 
(which are nearly dry) to cabs. They are also permitted to 
help in the decking of the stalls. This is great fun. 



B 



azaars. 97 



THE FIRST DAY OF THE BAZAAR. 

It never rains on the first day. 

The gentleman who opens the bazaar is a prodigious 
success. He never says that they could have got some one 
of more eminence than he to discharge these onerous duties, 
and then waits for cries of " No, no." He always puts things 
in a way they have never been put before, and when he 
declares the bazaar open, he never slips away by a side door. 

There is no rivalry at the different stalls, for all are 
working for the cause (see Prospectus). 

The articles are sold at great bargains. Nothing is to be 
raffled, as the committee disapprove of raffling. 

Now is your chance for a hand-painted writing desk. 

Men enter briskly, as if eager to begin buying at once. 
There is no hanging back at the doors nor buttoning of 
coats. 

The ladies who serve are anxious that you should buy 
nothing except what you really want. Are you dying for a 
hand-painted soup tureen ? 

THE SECOND DAY. 

There is still the same desire to let you decide for yourself 
what you are to buy. Perhaps you have only dropped in to 
look round ? You are welcome. 

None of the articles have been reduced in price, because 

somehow they did not sell yesterday. 

Not one of the ladies serving has wakened with a head- 

G 



98 Pot Pourri. 

ache and sent an excuse for her non-appearance. All are as 
enthusiastic as ever. 

Among the men buying are a great number who were 
here yesterday, and have come back because they enjoyed 
themselves so much. 

No man says that unfortunately he left his purse in his 
other coat, nor that he is merely fixing to-day on what he 
would like to have that he may come back and buy it 
to-morrow. 

The hand-painting comes off nothing while in your pocket. 

THE LAST DAY. 

Ladies do not now arrive in great numbers, because on 
the last day things are sold for a mere song. 

No contributors are angry because their hand-painted ink 
bottles have not sold. 

No man is ordered to buy his wife's contributions because 
they are still on sale. 

No one goes home with dolls in hand-painted pinafores, 
and sits on them in the hansom. 

There is no desperate raffling of screens at twenty guineas 
on the last day. 

The committee are still as polite as ever. 

The stallholders are quite delighted with the way every- 
thing has been managed ; and can you tell them of any 
minister who wants a new church, hand-painted or plain .-* 



3. h^. 



c»_A>*t_Aje_ 



Madrigal 



HARK ! the mcrr)- wedding bell 
Peals its changing notes of gladness, 
Giving holiday to sadness, 
Sweet and low its accents swell. 
Loud it tells of hearts united : 
Low it breathes of love requited. 
Where the mortal who says no, 
When sly Cupid bends his bow ? 
Thus it comes to one and all, 
Be they great or be they small. 
Love will chain them in his thrall. 
Sing fal ! lal ! lal ! 

Fools who rail at Hymen's bliss 
Cease your jealous idle scorning ! 
Taste the dew of love's fresh morning, 
Heave soft sigh and steal sweet kiss. 
Swift the flower of life is blowing, 
Ripening fast for passions glowing ; 
Cull its blossom while you may, 
Death to-morrow ! Love to-day. 
And 'twill come to you as all, 
Be they great or be they small. 
Love will chain you in his thrall. 
Sing fal ! lal ! lal ! 



10^1^-^LMa^^ 




The End of It 



I GAVE my heart to a woman — 
I eave it her branch and root. 
She bruised, she wrung, she tortured, 
She cast it under foot. 

Under her feet she cast it, 
She trampled it where it fell, 

She broke it all to pieces, 
And each was a clot of hell. 

There in the rain and the sunshine, 
They lay and smouldered long ; 

And each, when again she viewed them, 
Had turned to a living song. 



VA/. r ^<^M-Jx^ 




TLKNBULL AND SI'EAKS 

PRINTERS 

EDINBURGH 



u\ 



mt^ 



o VINaOJTlVO dC 



3fl 



o AUsaaMNfi 3H1 



MS 



o io A»vaan 3Hi ° 



/ 



' SANTA BARBARA 



o THE 118RARY Of 



"^^ 



C&f^ 



THE UNIVERSITY 



\^ 


1C 


Si 


J 


fe 



o OF CAIIFORNIA 



vavasivB vinvs 



V 



^ 



3^^ 



o viNaOiiiv:> JO 



JO .i>av8aii 3Hi 




A,llSa3AlNn 3H1 



o OF CAHfOPNu 



1^ 



THE UNIVERSITY 



THB liaf.ARY OF 



THE LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 

Santa Barbara 



o V!IV9av9 VINVS o 



l~;- 


V 


t 


B 



THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
STAMPED BELOW. 



./ 



Of 

C 



JO /■iva'iin 3H1 '^ 



3f^|j J lSfBj J i |c^ 



SANTA BASOAKA 



o WINIiOJIlVD JO o 



\ 



SITY o 

-^ lo 



■i-JS 



:i^ 



^ 



S 12 



3t 



o AiisaaAit 



/ 



juu incur;. ..M.iof./^, i_i[iPA,-, 



111"..;^..';' L'-'PAny. ABILITY 



/ 



AUlA dmKOmi 



3 1205 02126 5770 



AA 001252 987 



X 



/ 



/ 



/iNaOiiivJ* 3O " 



/ 



- Allsaj/viN 



v_ _