It is impossible to describe the scorn, the loathing, and contempt,1 with which the wife of MacGregor regarded this wretched petitioner for the poor boon of existence. "I could have bid ye live,” 2 she said, “ had life been to you the same weary and wasting burden that it is to me —that it is to every noble and generous mind. But you -wretch! you could creep through the world unaffected by its various disgraces, its ineffable miseries, its constantly accumulating masses of crime and sorrow: you could live and enjoy yourself, while the noble-minded are betrayed -while nameless and birthless villains tread on the neck of the brave and the long-descended: you could enjoy yourself, like a butcher's dog in the shambles, battening on garbage, while the slaughter of the oldest and best went on around you !5 This enjoyment you shall not live to partake of !-you shall die, base dog!6 and that before yon cloud has passed over the sun." She gave a brief command in Gaelic to her attendants, two of whom seized upon the prostrate suppliant, and hurried him to the brink of a cliff which overhung the flood. He set up the most piercing and dreadful cries that fear ever uttered-I may well term them dreadful, for they haunted my sleep for years afterwards.10 As late, 'were he to breathe no longer (plus) any (de) other air than that of.' 1 'the scorn,' &c.; simply, l'air de mépris et de dégoût. 2 Je t'accorderais la vie. 3 'to enjoy oneself,' here, se trouver heureux. 4 tandis que des gens sans naissance et sans courage foulent aux pieds des hommes illustrés par leur bravoure et par une longue suite d'aïeux. Put a full stop here. 5 'you could,' &c.; "Au milieu du carnage général, tu serais aussi heureux que le chien du boucher, qui lèche le sang des bestiaux qu'on égorge. 6 lâche, chien! 8 7 ce. qui surplombait le lac. 9 Simply, I may say,' '-'I may,' je puis, which is more quaint than je peux. 10 Turn, 'for during some (quelques) years I often started up out of my sleep (je m'éveillai souvent en sursaut), thinking still I heard them (page 7, note 7).' We had better use here the preterite (je m'éveillai) than the imperfect (page 1, note, and page 55, note), although the action was repeated, and this is often done when it is intended to point to each time the action took place, as separate and distinct from the others. By thus striking the mind with the idea of a fact which happened at oncethough repeatedly so-instead of letting it dwell on that secondary consideration, namely, that of a repetition of the fact mentioned, we give to our narration both more vivacity and more rapidity. the murderers, or executioners, call them as you will,1 dragged him along, he recognised me in that moment of horror, and exclaimed, in the last articulate words I ever heard him utter, "O Mr. Osbaldistone, save me !-save me!" I was so much moved by this horrid spectacle, that, although in momentary expectation of sharing 2 his fate, I did attempt to speak in his behalf, but, as might have been expected, my interference was sternly disregarded. The victim was held fast by some, while others, binding a large heavy stone,3 in a plaid, tied it round his neck, and others again eagerly stript him of some part of his dress. Half-naked, and thus manacled, they hurled him into the lake, there about twelve feet deep, with a loud halloo of vindictive triumph,—above which, however, his last deathshriek, the yell of mortal agony, was distinctly heard. The heavy burden splashed in the dark-blue waters, and the Highlanders, with their pole-axes and swords, watched an instant, to guard, lest,5 extricating himself from the load to which he was attached, the victim might have struggled to regain the shore. But the knot had been securely bound--the wretched man sunk without effort;6 the waters, which his fall had disturbed, settled calmly over him, and the unit of that life for which he had pleaded so strongly, was for ever withdrawn from the sum of human existence. (SIR WALTER SCOTT, Rob Roy.) gnit à jamais (see page 194, note 221 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 66 THE parents of the deceased had resided in the village from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and by various rural occupations and the assistance of a small garden, had supported themselves creditably, and comfortably, and led a happy and blameless life. They had one son, who had grown up to be the Oh, sir!" said the good staff and pride of their age.2 " he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind to every one around him, so dutiful3 to his parents! It did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother to church-for she was always fonder of leaning on George's arm than on her goodman's,5 and, poor soul, she might well be proud of him, for a finer lad there was not in the country round." woman, 6 His Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the small craft that plied on a neighbouring river. He had not been long in this employ when he was entrapped by a press-gang and carried off to sea.8 parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond that they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their main prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew heartless 9 and melancholy, and sunk into his 10 grave. The widow, 1 'the produce.' 2 l'appui et l'orgueil de leur vieillesse. The figurative expression bâton de vieillesse is French; but, on account of the common idea called forth by the word bâton, which, in its proper sense, is of so extensive application, meaning, as it does, 'staff,' 'stick,' 'cudgel,' &c., baton and orgueil would form a somewhat ungracious association of terms. 3 un si digne garçon, si aimable, si doux avec tout le monde, si ressee pectueux.-' to ;' page 36, note 11. 4 On éprouvait un plaisir délicieux en le voyant le. 5 celui de son muri. 3 1 left alone in her age and feebleness, could no longer support herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a kind feeling toward her throughout the village, and2 a certain respect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one applied for the cottage in which she had passed so many happy days, she was permitted to remain in it, where she lived solitary and almost helpless. The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty production of her little garden, which the neighbours would now and then cultivate 5 for her. It was but a few days before the time at which these circumstances were told me, that she was gathering some vegetables for her repast, when she heard the cottage-door which faced the garden suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seaman's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened toward her, but his steps were faint and faltering; he sank on his knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering eye. my dear, dear mother! 10 don't you know your son? your poor boy George?" 11 It was indeed the wreck of her once noble lad; who, shattered by wounds, by sickness, and foreign 12 imprisonment, had at length dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes of his childhood. "Oh I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, where joy and sorrow were so completely blended. Still he was alive! he was come home! he might yet live to comfort and cherish her old age! Nature, however, was exhausted in him; and if anything had been wanting to finish the work of fate, the desolation of his native cottage would have been sufficient.1 He stretched himself on the pallet, on which his widowed mother had passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it again. The villagers, when they heard2 that George Somers had returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assistance that their humble means afforded.4 He was too weak, however, to talk; he could only look his thanks.5 His mother was his constant attendant; and he seemed unwilling to be helped by any other hand. There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of manhood, that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness and despondency, who that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect and loneli. ness of a foreign land, but has thought on the mother "that looked on his childhood," that smoothed his pillow,s and administered to his helplessness? Oh! there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be 10 chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame and exult in his prosperity and if misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from |