'To you, Stanley, I can say every thing which I dare whisper to my own heart; but this is a matter which even my own private bosom tries to eschew. It seems- -it seems, the unhappy old man is narrow-hearted—a miser, as they term it here; and that for some petty thefts he was subjected by some fellows of the village to the aforementioned ducking. I know well, Stanley, you will not despise me for all this; nor because I must now wear my own name of Crabbe, which I am determined, in justice to that unhappy old father, henceforth to do. On the contrary, you will only advise me well how to win upon his harder nature, and bring him round to more liberal habits. The following scheme for this purpose struck me one evening, as I sat chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy' beside the pool whence I rescued the poor old man. For indeed -indeed, I must grapple with the realities of the moral evil, however painful or disgusting. That being is my father; and no one can tell how much his nature may have been warped and kept perverse by the loss of the proper objects of natural affection : Is it not my bounden duty, then, to be found to him, and, by my constant presence, to open his heart, which has been too much constringed by his lonely situation? I will hedge him round, in the first place, from insults: I will live with him, in his own house, all at my expense; and our household economy shall be as liberal as my finances will permit: I will give much money in charity, and make him the dispenser of it; for our best feelings are improved by outward practice: Whenever I may be honoured by an invitation to a good man's table, the slightest hint to bring him with me shall be taken advantage of; and he shall go, that the civilities of honourable men may help his self-respect, and thereby his virtue. Now, may God aid me in this moral experiment, to make the poor old man doubly mine own!'

"From this extract," said the young Englishman, carefully folding up his deceased friend's letter, "you will see something of the exalted nature of poor Ramsay-Crabbe I should say. I may here mention, that the death of the

old man, which took place not many weeks after the brutalities referred to were inflicted upon him, and which, in all likelihood, was hastened by that infliction, never allowed his son to put in practice those institutes of moral discipline which he had devised to repair and beautify the degraded fountain of his life. I doubt not, this miserable end of his parent, and the sense of his own utter loneliness in respect to kindred, preyed upon the generous soldier, and helped to bring on that delirium of fever, which so soon turned his large heart into dust and oblivion. Peace be with his ashes, and everlasting honour wait upon his name! To-morrow morning, Sir," continued the youth, "I set out again for England, and I should like to bear your name along with me, coupled with the memory which shall never leave me, of your disinterested kindness towards my late friend. I talk little of thanks, for I hold you well repaid by the consciousness of having done the last duties of humanity for a brave and good man."

According to the Englishman's request, I gave him my name, and received his in return; and shaking hands over the grave of poor Crabbe, we parted.

"So, then," said I to myself, as I left the church-yard, "it appears, that at the very moment when this generous soldier was meditating a wise moral plan to win his debased parent to honour and salvation, at that very moment I was allowing my heart to entertain a groundless feeling of dislike to him." My second more pleasing reflection was, that this unmanly prejudice had easily given way. How could it less, under the awful presence of Death, who is the great Apostle of human charity? Moreover, from the whole matter I have derived this important lesson for myself,-never to allow a hasty opinion, drawn from little peculiarities of manner or appearance, to make me decide unfavourably against this or that man, who, for aught I really know, may be worthy of unqualified esteem.

CHAPTER XV.

"BUY A BROOM?"

SECTION I.

ONE beautiful afternoon, about the beginning of the barley and wheat harvest, Frederick Hume arose from his desk, where for several hours he had been plodding at his studies, and, to unbend himself a little, went to his window, which commanded a view of our Village. A stillness almost like that of the Sabbath reigned over the hamlet, for the busy season had called the youngsters forth to the field, the sunburnt sickleman and his fair partner. Boys and girls were away to glean and none were left but a few young children who were playing quietly on the green; two or three ancient grannams who sat spinning at their doors in the rich sunlight; and here and there a happy young mother, exempted by the duties of nurse from the harvest toils. A single frail octogenarian, who, in hobbling to the almost deserted smithy, had paused, with the curiosity of age, to look long beneath his upraised arm after the stranger horseman, who was just going out of sight at the extremity of the Village, completed the picture of quiet life which our student was now contemplating. After raising the window, and setting open the door, to win into his little apartment the liquid coolness which was nestling among the green fibrous leaves around the casement, he was again standing looking towards the hamlet, when, hearing a light foot approach the door of his study, he turned round, and a young female stranger was before him. On seeing him, she paused at the threshold, made a sort of reverence, and seemed willing to retire. From her dark complexion, and her peculiar dress, especially the head-gear, which consisted merely of a spotted handkerchief wound round her black locks, Hume guessed at once that she was a foreigner; and he was confirmed in this supposition when, on his advancing and asking, "What do you wish, my good girl?" she held for

ward a light broom, and said, in a quick short foreign accent, "Buy a Broom?"

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Pray what is the use of it, my good lass ?" said Frederick, in that mood in which a man, conscious that he has finished a dry lesson to some purpose, is very ready to indulge in a little badinage and light banter.

"For beard-shaving," answered the girl in the same vein, stroking his chin once or twice with her broom, as if with a shaving brush.

"Most literally an argumentum ad hominem to make me buy," said the scholar; "so what is the price, fair stranger?"

"No, no," said the girl, in quick reaction from her playful mood, whilst a tear started in her dark lustrous eye; "but they bid me come: they say you are a doctor: and if you will be kind and follow me to my poor brother, you shall have many brooms."

On inquiring distinctly what the girl meant, our student was given to understand, that her only brother, who had come with her as a harper to this country, had fallen sick at a gentleman's house about a mile off, and that she, on learning Mr Frederick Hume was the only person within many miles who could pretend to medical skill, had come herself to take him to her poor Antonio. After learning farther the symptoms of the lad's illness, the young surgeon took his lancets and some simple medicine, and readily followed the girl, who led the way to a neat villa, which, as Frederick had heard, was the residence of an Italian of the name of Romelli. He had been an officer in the French service, and had come to this country with other prisoners; but, instead of returning home on an exchange being made, he chose to continue in Scotland with his only daughter, who had come over to him from Italy, and who, Frederick had heard, was a young lady of surpassing beauty. Following his conductress to Romelli's house, Hume was shown into a room, where, reclining upon a sofa, was a boy, apparently about sixteen years of age, the features of whose pale face instantly testified him to be brother to the maid with the

broom. He was ministered to by a lovely damsel, Signora Romelli herself, who seemed to be watching him with the softest care. At the head of the sofa stood the harp of the wandering boy.

"I presumed, Sir," said the beautiful hostess, turning to Hume,"to hint that perhaps you might easily be found, and that certainly you would be very willing to take a little trouble in such a case as this. The affectionate sister has not been long in bringing you."

Frederick bowed to Miss Romelli, and then turned to the boy : "What is the matter with you, my little fellow?" said he, advancing to the patient.

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Nothing," was the boy's answer; and immediately he rose up and went to the window from which he gazed, heedless of every one in the apartment.

"I am afraid the lad is still very unwell," said Signora Romelli; "only look how pale he is."

Hume first looked at the boy's sister, to assure himself what was the natural healthy hue of these swarthy strangers; then turning to the boy himself, he could not but observe how much the wanness of his face differed from the lifebloom which glowed in her dark-brown cheek. His eye at the same time burned with arrowy tips of restless lustre, such as are kindled by hectic fever. He resisted, however, all advances on the part of our surgeon to inquire farther into his state of health, impatiently declaring that he was now quite well; then resuming his harp, and taking his sister by the hand, he seemed in haste to be gone.

"My father is not at home," said the young lady of the house to Hume; "nevertheless, they must abide here all night, for I can easily see that boy is unable to travel farther this evening: And besides, they are of my own native country. Use your prerogative, Sir, and don't let go."

him

In spite of the surgeon's persuasions, however, and heedless of Signora Romelli, and his own sister, who joined in the remonstrance against his departure, the lad would go; although at the same time he declared there was no other place where he wished particularly to be. "He is a