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ship was not lost: it arrived, and he arrived | same apartment with him made it necessary -no wonder that it was with a sick impatience and disgust of every thing, that Bell, at last, closed her wearied, hot eyes upon the dawning light.
at that far foreign port-the very name of which, if you mentioned it, would still send a thrill of pain through Bell's vigorous frame. But there the darkness swallowed up the brave and candid sailor; what he had to say "And he's sell't Lillie!" were the first for himself, or, if he had nothing to say for words Bell said, as, hastily dressing herself, himself, and the lie against which Bell strug- she looked out at her little window next gled was true, nobody could tell. The an- morning, and saw Robert Brown's black guish of that long expectation need not be cow already in the dewy field. The bittertold; the quiet years had swallowed it up ness of this exclamation could only be underand gone down upon it, leaving no trace. stood by an Annandale girl, proudly conBell went away when she could endure no scious of one beautiful fair cow among the longer, "to service," to quench her heart, or little group of black cattle so usual in Dumget new life into it; in that primeval strug-friesshire. Amid all her more engrossing gle with hard labor and outside facts, which troubles, Bell could yet feel a pang for the is the best discipline for human creatures. loss of Lillie, her mother's favorite, the She had fought her battle so far bravely; "grandest milker" in the whole parish. till now, at last, when she had come home. "It's just like a' the rest," she said to herBut, to see before her very eyes that au- self bitterly, as she went down-stairs. And thor of her calamity; to know that she had perhaps it did not give a more Christian been sent for-not to fill her dead mother's gentleness to her feelings as she descended place, nor from the impulse of a relenting into the hard beginning of her unlovely heart, softened by sorrow-but to be wooed life. and carried home by this man, the object of When the father and daughter met that all the resentment possible to woman, the morning, neither of them took any notice cause of all her sufferings-Bell would have whatever of the scene of last night. In such been more than a mere human daughter primitive Scotch households, "good-night" could she have borne it. Her breast swelled and "good-morrow" are dispensed with in a passion of grief, indignation, injured from members of the same family. There love, and injured pride. With a hysterical were no morning salutations between gasp it swelled, "as if it would burst." These Andrew Carr and his daughter. They emotions, which rose so high in her own re- took their homely breakfast together with tirement, where no mother followed now to little conversation. What talk there was, soften the tide of passion or cool the burn- was about "the beasts," that subject on ing cheek, would never be disclosed to the which an Annandale peasant is naturally light of day. All a Scotchwoman's jealous eloquent. The old man had bethought himreticence-all the proud, shy, self-control of self that there was a calf of Lillie's in the a country girl, brought up in such a house byer, and condescended to conciliate Bell by as that of Whinnyrig, built strong barriers this fact. And Bell, we are obliged to conaround to confine the flood within its source; fess, though it may convey a depreciating but here, where no one could see, the pas- impression of her character and mind, was sionate bosom swelled, the wild hands conciliated and pleased to hear it. She went clenched each other, the bitterness poured about her work more lightly in consequence. itself forth. There were gleams in the east She patted the long-legged, foolish animal, of early dawn, and the atmosphere had called it "my bonnie woman," fed it out of lightened, with a gradual smile and clearing her own hand-did every thing an experiof outline, all outside, before sleep visited enced country-woman could do to attract its the eyes of Bell. Ere that time she had youthful affections. She had a hard day's nerved herself, as best she could, for that work before her, as always, and no time for prospect before her. These daily, nightly thinking. Marget Brown, too, came up at persecutions; the necessity of bearing with an early hour from the cottage, and the two this man's presence; hearing him, seeing fell into close conversation, as became old him, knowing why he came; even, perhaps, friends. On the whole, Bell was not misertolerating his suit, so far as being within the able. She was nothing in the world of a
heroine. When she went out to the door aye a rael guid woman, as was seen on her
at the last. But, Bell, if ye'll believe me, I dinna doubt she got mair light on some things at the hinder end."
Bell's face flushed with sudden excitement; she held out her hands in a wild appeal to her companion, and gasped an inarticulate inquiry which startled Marget.
and lingered a moment in her pretty country dress-that short gown and petticoat which has almost disappeared out of Scotlandand, putting up her hand to shelter her eyes, Ipoked out upon the familiar landscape-it was, indeed, the landscape she looked at, and not any illusive picture in her own imagination; the low pastoral hills, not very "I'm no meaning ony thing to make ye far off, with all their different tinges of color; look so white," cried Marget, "naething out the rich wooded line which betrayed towards o' the way. Bell, my woman! Bless me, the east the course of "the water;" the no! Naething uncanny ever came to a saint "peat-moss," on the other side of the little like yon. But just when a' was maist ower, hillock, with its fantastic paths and deep and me at the bedside-(and sair, sair vexed cuttings, glimmering where the sun caught we were that ye couldna be sent for-but them with gleams of water-all this was fair death aye seems sudden whenever he comes) and sweet to the accustomed eyes of Bell. she held out her bit thin hands, and says And not less sweet was the hum that filled she, Willie! bless ye, my man!' says she, the atmosphere everywhere-an indefinite'ye'll make my bairn happy yet.' Bell! mist of sound, in which poultry, sheep, cattle, Eh, my woman! I wouldna have tell't ye if and men had all their distinct inarticulate I had thought ye would have ta'en't sae strain, and which now and then the soft low muckle to heart." of a cow or the sharp bark of a dog defined For poor Bell, as was but natural, had for an instant and made complete. When, fallen into a passion of tears. When these at last, her own thoughts began to reflect were spent, however, the Scotch girl quickly themselves in that landscape, and Bell re-recovered her composure. It was a wondermembered that along that moorland road last ful relief to her heart to be at liberty to speak night her unwelcome admirer had made his about her mother at all, and the two entered appearance, she dropped her hand from her upon that sad engrossing subject with all the eyes and turned back to her work-wiser in minutiæ of recollection, and all the eagerunconscious natural wisdom than many a ness of inquiry which specially belongs to great philosopher. Such indulgences of sen- the death-bed. But when Marget had untiment were not for the manager of Whinny-burdened her heart of all her remembrances, rig-not, at least, in good daylight and with she returned to her original starting-point. work in hand to do. "But, mind my words," said Marget, "I dinna doubt ye'll mak a change-you" Jamie Lowther o' Broomlees has grippit ought at your time o' life, with a' the world before you," said Marget Brown; "it's no like me, hadden doun with wark and weans. Young folks dinna ken, as I say to Robbie mony's the day-dinna ken the half nor the quarter o' what's before them; no that I would envy you. Bell, my woman, ye'll have an awfu' handfu' of the auld man, if ye canna turn your heart to young Broomlees."
"If ye want to please me, Marget, ye'll never mention his name," said Bell, shortly. "I'm sure it's nae pleasure to me," said Marget. "I canna say he ever took my fancy, yon lad-nae mair like some o' his kin-But whisht, whisht, we're no to speak o' that. The mistress, ye ken, she never would say one thing nor anither. She was aye for waiting upon Providence; she was
the auld man fast, Bell. He's gotten our maister in his toils, as I say to Robbiesome way or other he's gotten that influence on him a body daurna say a word. And, eh, Bell, if ye canna turn your heart to young Broomlees-as indeed it's little to be expected-ye'll hae an awfu' handfu' o' the auld man!
Bell heard this augury in silence; she knew it well enough without any warning. Just now she had her mother's gleam of death-bed wandering or insight-which was it ?-to comfort her. There was no doubt on the subject in Bell's mind; she received these words as if they had come from heaven-a sacredness more than earthly was about the utterance of the dying. It came to her like a ray of light in the surrounding darkness-she felt her heart buoyed up with
an unexplainable exhilaration. If the influ- | I was young and free, I might bend my heart ence waned, it was at least ineffable for the to your bidding, faither; but ye ken a' as time.
That night Andrew Carr himself entered upon the same all-important subject. The two were alone together as before; but Bell was busy with her stockings from the beginning of the conversation, and that very fact helped to fortify and calm her.
"Bell," said her father, "it's my desire you should show some civility to Jamie Lowther. Ye ken what he comes here for as weel as me."
"He might ken better than to come here at a'," said Bell, with involuntary bitter
"That's no a manner to speak to me," said Andrew Carr; "I require ye, upon your obedience, to do what I'm telling ye. It's for you Jamie Lowther comes here, and I've promised him he's to get you."
"Faither!" cried Bell, with a start and cry of indignation.
"I'm speaking plain fac'," cried the irritated old man; "I'm in my ain house, where I've aye been king and priest. Providence gied me the charge ower you, and it's your business to obey."
"If it's to be ceevil, I'll be ceevil," said Bell, restraining herself with a great effort; " and I'm no unceevil," she added, in a lower voice.
"Hear to what I've got to say to you. I've chosen him for your man-I've promised you for a wife to him," said Andrew Carr; "ye're mine to dispose of baith by God's law and man's, and I tell ye I've gien Jamie Lowther my word."
"But, faither, ye ken it canna be,” said Bell, holding her breath so strongly, to keep herself calm, that her words ended in a gasp.
"Wherefore canna it be? I've gien my word it shall be," said Andrew Carr.
"You're hard, but you're no that hard," cried poor Bell, always struggling after the meekness which was so difficult to her. "If
weel as me. Let alane a' that's happened, and a' I blame Jamie Lowther for; let alane I count him for my enemy, though I wish him no ill; let alane a' thing but the a thing—there's this still," said Bell, a sob escaping from her in the midst of her words, "I like anither lad better-and 0 faither, faither! you ken that, and so does he."
"It makes nae difference," said the old man: "if ye can speak up in my face, and name that ne'er-do-weel that cares nothing for you, as is weel seen; if ye've nae shame like ither women, it's no my blame-I lay my command upon you, and this is what ye are to do."
“But I canna," said Bell; "ony thing else in the world-ony thing else in the world, if it was my life."
"I wonder what the better I wad be o' your life," said the old man, testily; "your life! Na; ony thing but the only thing that's wanted! I've made up my mind; tak Jamie Lowther, or never mair ca' yourself bairn o' mine."
"If I was to be cast out of the house this moment; if I was to die on the moor, and never more see the light of day; if I was to be swallowed up by the earth, like Dathan and Abiram," cried Bell-gradually rising in irrestrainable emotion, wringing her hands, yet facing him with a pale look of resolve for she knew her father well enough to know that he could keep even such a promise-"I'll die if ye like, and welcome, but I'll no perjure my soul!"
The two faced each other for a moment, both resolute, daring all things. Then the old man turned his chair round to the fire. "I'll gie ye three days to think," said Andrew Carr.
Bell sank down on her seat trembling, yet restraining herself. Three days! and it was but yesterday, with thoughts so different, that she had come home!
From Once a Week.
ALLAN RAMSAY, JUNIOR. ALLAN RAMSAY, the author of the "Gentle Shepherd,"-" the best pastoral that had ever been written," said Mr. Boswell, whose judgments upon poetry, however, are not final, Allan Ramsay, the poet, father of Allan Ramsay, principal painter to King George the Third, claimed descent from the noble house of Dalhousie; he was the greatgrandson of the laird of Cockpen. His claim was admitted by the contemporary earl, who ever took pride in recognizing, as a relative, the "restorer of Scottish national poetry." Certainly the poetical branch of the family tree had been in some danger of being lost altogether-the clouds of obscurity had so gathered round it—the sunshine of good fortune had so ceased to play upon it. The laird's children appear to have been of the humblest class, dwelling in a poor hamlet on the banks of the Glangomar, a tributary of the Clyde among the hills between Clydesdale and Annandale. The father of the Gentle Shepherd is said to have been a workman in Lord Hopetoun's lead mines, and the Gentle Shepherd himself, as a child, was employed as a washer of ore. Early in the last century he was in Edinburgh, a barber's apprentice. In 1729 he had published his comic pastoral, and was then in a bookseller's shop in the Luckenbooths. Here he used to amuse Gay, famous for his Newgate pastoral, with pointing out the chief characters and literati of the city as they met daily in the forenoon at the Cross, according to custom. Here Gay first read the "Gentle Shepherd," and studied the Scottish dialect, so that, on his return to England, he was able to explain to Pope the peculiar merits of the poem. And the poets, Gay and Ramsay, spent much time and emptied many glasses together at a twopenny alehouse opposite Queensbury House, kept by one Janet Hall, called more frequently Janet Ha'.
It was at Edinburgh that Allan Ramsay, junior, was born, the eldest of seven children, in the year 1713, or in 1709, as some say. Late in life he was fond of understating his age as people somehow will do.
ering that Pope did not die until 1744, when Mr. Ramsay must have been at least thirtyone.
He had considerable talent for art. He began to sketch at twelve. But his father was poor with a large family to support,-it was not possible to afford much of an education to the young artist. He had to develop his abilities as he best could. In 1736, when he was probably twenty-three, the father wrote of him thus simply and tenderly: "My son Allan has been pursuing his science since he was a dozen years auld; was with Mr. Hyffidg, in London, for some time about two years ago; has since been painting here like a Raphael; sets out for the seat of the Beast beyond the Alps within a month hence to be away two years. I am sweer ”—i.e., loath—"to part with him, but canna stem the current which flows from the advice of his patrons and his own inclinations." This letter was addressed to one John Smybert, also a self-taught artist. He had commenced in Edinburgh as a housepainter, and, growing ambitious, found himself after a time in London, choosing between starvation and the decoration of grand coach-panels in Long Acre factories. In 1728 he settled in Boston, and shares with John Watson, another Scotchman, who had preceded him some years, the honor of founding painting as an art-from a European point of view-in the New World.
Those who had hesitated in their patronage of the poet were not disinclined to aid the painter. It is much less difficult a matter to have one's portrait painted than to be able to appreciate a poem. Means were forthcoming to enable the art-student to quit Edinburgh in 1736 for Rome. He remained there during three years, receiving instruction from Francesco Solimena, called also l'Abate Ciccio, and one Imperiali, an artist of less fame. Of both it may be said, however, that they did little enough to stay the downfall of Italian art.
On the return of Allan Ramsay, junior, to Scotland, we learn little more of him than that he painted portraits of Duncan Forbes, of his own sister, Miss Janet Ramsay, and Archibald, Duke of Argyle, in his robes as Lord of Session; finally, he removed to London.
"I am old enough," he said once, with the air of making a very frank avowal, "I am old enough to have been a contemporary of He was so fortunate as to find many valuPope." Which was not remarkable, consid-able friends. The Earl of Bridgewater was
an early patron, followed by Lord Bute, | were always sitters in his studio: he had as whose powerful position at court enabled much work as he could do, while yet he him to introduce the painter to the heir-apparent of the crown, Frederick, Prince of Wales. Two portraits of his royal highness were commanded, full-length, and one remarkable for being in profile. Still greater fame accrued to him, however, for his portrait of Lord Bute, who was said to have had the handsomest leg in England. His lordship was conscious of his advantage, and, during the sitting to Ramsay for his whole-length portrait, engraved by Ryland, was careful to hold up his robes considerably above his right knee, so that his wellformed limbs should be thoroughly well exhibited. While, as though to direct the attention of the spectator, with the forefinger of his right hand he pointed down to his leg, and in this position remained for an hour. The painter availed himself to the full of the opportunity, and humored the minister to the top of his bent. The picture was a genuine triumph. Reynolds, never popular at court, grew jealous of his rival's success, and alarmed lest it should lead to extraordinary advancement. When the Marquis of Rockingham was posed before Sir Joshua for the full-length picture, engraved by Fisher, the nobleman asked the painter if he had not given a strut to the left leg. "My lord," replied Sir Joshua with a smile, "I wish to show a leg with Ramsay's Lord Bute."
found time for self-cultivation. He must have possessed an active, restless mind. He was not content with being merely a clever, hard-working, money-making painter. Even at Rome he had studied other things beside art. As Mr. Fuseli states magniloquently, after his manner, "he was smit with the love of classic lore, and desired to trace, on dubious vestiges, the haunts of ancient genius and learning." He made himself a good Latin, French, and Italian scholar; indeed, he is said to have mastered most of the modern European languages, with the exception of Russian. His German he found of no slight service to him in the court of the Guelphs. Later in life he studied Greek, and acquitted himself as a commendable scholar.
The painter prospered steadily, and, of course, was well abused; but success is always sure to bring with it envy and satire. Mr. William Hogarth, who objected strongly to competitors, sought to jest down the advancing Scotchman with a feeble pun about a Ram's eye! William was very much less clever when he had a pen in his hand than when he was wielding a brush or an etchingneedle.
The Reverend Charles Churchill, very angry with North Britons, wrote sneering lines in the "Prophecy of Famine: "
Artists less accomplished, were inclined to charge him with being above his business, and more anxious to be accounted a person of taste and learning than to be valued as a painter. Just as Congreve disclaimed the character of a poet, declaring he had written plays but for pastime, and begged he might be considered merely as a gentleman. There was no one to say to Ramsay, however, as Voltaire-nothing, if not literary— said to Congreve, "If you had been merely a gentleman, I should not have come to see you." On the contrary men applauded Ramsay for qualities quite apart from professional merits.
"I love Ramsay," said Samuel Johnson to his biographer. "You will not find a man in whose conversation there is more instruction, more information, and more elegance than in Ramsay's."
Perhaps it may be noted that this remark of the doctor upon his friend follows curiously close upon his satisfactory comment upon an entertainment at the house of the painter.
"Well, sir, Ramsay gave us a splendid dinner! "
"What I admire in Ramsay," says Mr. Boswell," is his continuing to be so young!"
"Thence came the Ramsays men of worthy note, Of whom one paints as well as t'other wrote." Johnson concedes: "Why, yes, sir, it is By and by these two critics forgot Ram- to be admired. I value myself upon this, say, and were busy with each other, bandy- that there is nothing of the old man in my ing abuse and interchanging mud. The conversation. I am now sixty-eight, and I court-painter heeded little their comments. have no more of it than at twenty-eight." He was putting money in his purse. There And the good doctor runs on rather garru