Buller. A Horn-a Drum, sure enough-and-and-that incomprehensible mixture of groans and yells must be the Bagpipe.

North. See, yonder they come, over the hill-top, the ninth mile-stone from Inverary! There's the VAN, by the RoadSurveyor lent me for the occasion, drawn by Four Horses. And there's the WAGGON, once the property of the lessee of the Swiss Giantess, a noble unicorn. And there the SIX TENTCARTS, Two-steeded; and there the Two BOAT CARRIAGES, horsed I know not how. But don't you see the bonny BARGES aloft in the air? And Men on horseback-count them-there You hear the Bagpipe now, surely, "The Campbells are coming." And here is the whole Concern, gentlemen, close at hand, deploying across the Bridge.

should be four.

Seward. Have we lost ours? A Cavalcade it is, with a vengeance.

North. One minute past Seven! True to their time within sixty seconds. This way, this way. Here is the Spot, the Centre of the Grove. Bagpipe, Drum and Horn-music all— silence. Silence, I cry-will nobody assist me in crying silence!

Seward and Buller. Silence, silence, silence.

North. Give me the Speaking-Trumpet that I may call silence.

Seward. Stentor may put down the Drum, the Horns, the Fifes, and the Serpent, but the Bagpipe is above him-the Drone is deaf as the sea-the Piper moves in a sphere of his own. Buller. I don't hear a syllable you are saying-ah! the storm is dead, and now what a BLESSED CALM.

North. Wheel into line-Prepare to-pitch tents.

Enter the Field of the Sycamore Grove on Horseback, ushered by ARCHY M'CALLUM, HARRY SEWARD, MarMADUKE BULLER, VALLANCE VOLUSENE, NEPOS WOODBURN. Van Waggon, Carriages, and Carts, &c., form a Barricade between the Rear of the Grove and the Road to Dalmally.

Adjutant Archy M'Callum! call the Roll of the Troops.

Adjutant. Peter of the Lodge, Sewer and Seneschal, Here. Peterson ditto, Comptroller of the cellars, Here. Kit Peterson, tiger there, Here. Michael Dods, cook at that place, Here. Ben Brawn, maniciple, Here. Roderick M'Crimmon, king of the Pipes, Here. Pym and stretch, body-men to the young Englishers, Here, Here. Tom Moody, huntsman at Under-cliff Hall, North Devon, Here. The Cornwall clipper, head game-keeper at Pendragon, Here. Billy Balmer of Bowness, Windermere, Commodore, Here.

North. Attention! Each man will be held answerable for his subordinates. The roll will be called an hour after sun

rise, and an hour before sunset. Men, remember you are under martial law. Camp-master M'Kellar, Here. Let the Mid Peak of Cruachan be your pitching point. Old Dee-side tent in the centre, right in Front. Dormitories to the east. Το the west the Pavilion. Kitchen range in the rear. Donald Dhu, late Sergeant in the Black Watch, see to the Barricade. The Impediments in your charge. In three hours I command the Encampment to be complete. Admittance to the Field on the Queen's Birth-day. Crowd disperse. Old Boys! What do you think of this? You have often called me a Wizard, a Warlock-no glamour here-'tis real all, and all the WORK OF THE CRUTCH. Sons, your Fathers! Fathers, your Sons! Your hand, Volusene-and Woodburn, yours.

Seward. Hal, how are you?

Buller. How are you, Marmy?

North. On the stage-in the theatre of fictitious life—such a meeting as this would require explanation, but in the Drama of Real Life, on the Banks of Lochawe, it needs none. Friends

of my soul ! you will come to understand it all in two minutes' talk with your progeny. Progeny, welcome for your sires' sakes, and your Lady Mothers, and your own, to Lochawe-side. I see you are two Trumps. Volusene, Woodburn, from your faces all well at home. Come, my two old Bucks, let us Three, to be out of the bustle, retire to the Inn. Did you ever see Christopher fling the Crutch? There-I knew it would clear the Sycamore Grove.

SCENE II.-Interior of the Pavilion.

TIME-TWO P. M.

NORTH-SEWARD-BULLER.

Seward. Still at his siesta in his swing-chair. Few faces bear to be looked on asleep.

Buller. Men's faces.

Seward. His bears it well. Awake, it is sometimes too full of expression. And then, how it fluctuates! Perpetual play and interchange as Thought, Feeling, Fancy, Imagination

Buller. The gay, the grave, the sad, the serious, the pathetic, the humorous, the tragic, the whimsical rules the

minute

""Tis everything by fits, and nothing long."

Seward. Don't exaggerate. An inapt quotation.

Buller. I was merely carrying on your eulogium of his wide-awake face.

Seward. The prevalent expression is still, the Benign.

Buller. A singular mixture of tenderness and truculence. Seward. Asleep, it is absolutely saint-like.

Buller. It reminds me of the faces of Chantry's Sleeping Children in Litchfield Cathedral.

Seward. Composure is the word. Composure is mute Harmony.

Buller. It may be so- -but you will not deny that his nose is just a minim too long, and his mouth, at this moment, just a minim too open, and the crow-feet

Seward. Enhance the power of those large drooping eyelids, heavy with meditation, of that high broad forehead, with the lines, not the wrinkles, of age.

Buller. He is much balder than he was on Deeside.

Seward. Or fifty years before. They say that, in youth, the sight of his head of hair once silenced Mirabeau.

Buller. Why, Mirabeau's was black, and my grandmother told me North's was yellow, or rather green, like a star.

North. Your Grandmother, Buller, was the finest woman of her time.

Buller. Sleepers hear. Sometimes a single word from without, reaching the spiritual region, changes by its touch the whole current of their dreams.

North. I once told you that, Buller. At present, I happen to be awake. But surely a man may sit on a swing-chair with his eyes shut, and his mouth open, without incurring the charge of somnolency. Where have you been?

Seward. You told us, sir, not to disturb you till two-
North. But where have you been?

Seward. We have written our dispatches, read our London papers, and had a pull in gutta percha to and from Port Sonachan.

North. How does she pull?

Buller. Like a winner. I have written to the builder

Taylor of Newcastle-to match her against any craft of her keel

in the kingdom.

North. Sit down. Where are the Boys?

Seward. Off hours ago to Kilchurn. They have just signalized, "Two O'CLOCK. 1 SALMO FEROX, lb. 12; 20 YELLOW-FINS, lb. 15; 6 PIKE, lb. 36."

North. And not bad sport, either. hour. Seven sharp.

They know the dinner

Seward. They do, and they are not the lads to disregard orders.

North. Four finer fellows are not in Christendom.

Seward. May I presume to ask, sir, what volumes these are lying open on your knees?

North. THE ILIAD, and PARADISE LOST.

Seward. I fear, sir, you may not be disposed to enlighten us, at this hour.

North. But I am disposed to be enlightened. Oxonians, and Double First-Class Men, nor truants since, you will find in me a docile pupil rather than a Teacher. I am no great Grecian.

Buller. But you are, sir; and a fine old Trojan too, methinks! What audacious word has escaped my lips!

North. Epic Poetry! Tell but a Tale, and see Childhood— the harmless, the trustful, the wondering-listen, "all ear;" and so has the wilder and mightier Childhood of Nations listened, trustful, wondering, "all ear," to Tales lofty, profound-said, or, as Art grew up, sung.

Seward. EIE, Say or Tell.

Buller. AEIAE, Sing.

North. Yes, my lads, these were the received formulas of beseeching with which the Minstrels of Hellas invoked succor of the Divine Muse, when their burning tongue would fit well to the Harp transmitted Tales, fraught with old heroic remem