of the Edinburgh bucks once on a day. Alack for poor Mary! She had none to condole with her save her betrayer, who soothed her as the crocodile soothes his prey.

said she. Upon my word I do not well know," returned he; then turning to the driver, he said, "Dick, who bade you come this way, you rascal?" The coachman, who had got his lesson before, answered, "It was your father, sir."

"O! very well," said the other, giving each of the ladies an arm, and conducting them into the inn.

"Good Lord, Mr James, where are we?" enquired Miss H- with wellfeigned alarm; "I declare I am terrified, and must tell you I don't un derstand this."

"Hold your tongue, foolish girl," said he; 66 are you not safe enough

with me anywhere?"

"Am I so indeed? But I have rea son to know otherwise, and, oh me! I'm sure you have some plot on my honour, and then what shall I do if I am bereft of my honour! But I'll raise the whole village, that I will; and I'll have you apprehended and incarcerated, ay, and hanged, for the deforcement of a virgin.'

In this state did she go on, till Mary became afraid of some terrible calamity; and actually, in the simplicity of her heart, took part with her be trayer in calming the lady's terrible alarm, trying to assure her, that though she herself was in the same predica ment, and knew not whether they had come there by chance or by design, yet she had so much confidence in Mr James's honour, that she felt very little, if any, alarm. Then the lady rose in a flame upon Mary, pretending that she was a country crony of his, whom he had suborned to assist him in her inveiglement, but she was determined to have full and ample amends of them both; and for that purpose she order ed the doors to be all locked, and the keys delivered up to herself, till she sent for the officers of justice to take them both into custody. And there the two were locked up together, and a double guard placed on the door. They were taken out, guarded, during the night, into another room, and examined; and their haughty judge remanded them both into confinement, and constables to be placed on the house till he could procure a regular warrant from Edinburgh for their commitment; and there were they locked up again together, and kept there for several days. It was Miss H-'s own country house, and no very good one, but well enough known to many

Mr Melrose had a great number of cattle at the St Lawrence fair, and not being able to sell them all, he was obliged to drive them to the southern markets; and by that means, he was a week or more absent from home;and a miserable man was he on his return, on learning that his Mary had been lost,-the very staff of his age and support of his family. He never rested till he had learned every thing it was possible to learn concerning her; and being assured that the young laird had carried her off, he went straight and applied to his father, hoping to find him at least reasonable. He never was farther mistaken. The laird broke out into such a passion as he had never seen him in before.

"And why come to me with these news?" said he; "was I your daugh ter's keeper? I'll take neither blame nor interest in it, that I assure you of. You might have taken better care of your daughter. If young hizzies will be melling with their superiors, jigging and dancing with them, and riding in chaises with them, they must just abide by the consequences. You might have taken better care of your daughter, and to you!"

be

"Alack, sir, I little thought that ever your son could have had the heart to have ruined my beloved Mary," said the farmer, with tears in his eyes; "she was so good, so amiable, and so virtuous, and so much the support of my small family, that I could not have thought the heart of man could have betrayed her, far less Mr James, whose honour I trusted as much as my own."

"You trusted to a great rascal, then," said the laird, turning hastily away, and dashing a tear from his eye; "and so you may go and redeem your trust the best way you can."

Poor Melrose, finding he could do nothing here, posted to Edinburgh, where he soon found his young master; and a more awkward and distressing meeting can scarcely be conceived. The young man was deeply af fected by the eloquence of the parent's grief, but would confess nothing, save that Mary got a ride with him to town, and went off with a female acquaintance who came with her; and with this answer, and a feigned direction

where there was some chance of hearing of her, was the heart-sick parent dismissed. He had not gone ten yards from the door before he discovered his master, the old laird, posting onward to the house he had just left, and never once lifting his eyes from the pavement. A gleam of hope shot across the old farmer's mind, at this sight, of at least recovering his lost child; indeed, that was the only hope he could entertain; and to have recovered that darling lamb, who he was sure had been driven astray, and not gone vo luntarily, he would have given all he possessed in the world.

The laird going abruptly into his son's apartment, found him leaning his arm on the chimney, and his eyes gleaming with tears. The farmer's expostulations had smitten him to the heart; and if his late enormities had then been to act as they were before acted, I believe he would rather have laid down his life than have committed them. The moment he saw his father he again turned pale, so closely are guilt, fear, and shame, connected. Father, you here? That is certain ly extraordinary," said he.

"Extraordinary, sir? how should it be extraordinary when matters are as they are? Tell me this, you villain, and tell me truly, is it you who have carried off Mary Melrose from her father?"

"Mary Melrose again," said James, his lip quivering with shame and vexation; this is a terrible ado about a girl, as if no other in the world were worth caring for but she."

"That is not answering my question, you confounded heartless blubbering rascal!" said the irritated father. "In her own sphere there was not one as well worth caring for; and let me tell you, she had more virtue, truth, and integrity, than ever you were possessed of with all your advantages. She was the flower of her father's house, as well as the stay and support of it. And do you think that I will suffer as much beauty and simple piety to fall a prey to a regardless, cold-hearted, pampered rascal like you? Lead me to her instantly, that I may examine her myself; for I will not get one word of truth out of you."

"Pardon me, sir, in this. I would rather be excused for the present, if you please."

or not ?"

"With all my heart, sir, if it is your desire. I would have married her long ago, for I loved her so much that I could not live without her. But then I never durst ask your consent, for I thought I was certain you would not grant it."

"Neither I would, you confounded rascal! neither I would have granted it then. But you have turned the tables against me now. I could not have looked my own farmer nor his worthy brother in the face, knowing the injury they had received from my family. I found I could not even look my Maker in the face, nor ask his divine protection, while such a heinous injury remained unrepaired. But it is all well now. Give me your hand. We are friends again. No other reparation could do but this. Go, seek me out Mary, and let us get the marriage over without delay."

When James went to his disconsolate Mary, and told her what his father had done, she was quite overcome with gratitude, and when she came into his presence, she kneeled, embraced his knees with both her arms, and wept profusely. But the old man lifted her in his arms and kissed her, bidding her be of good cheer, and she should still have her new gown at the Mains' rent-paying. The two were married accordingly, and as they reached Kilmeran Castle late on a Saturday evening, nothing of the matter was

known in the parish. But the surprise excited among the parishioners next day, was productive of very bad, and even fatal consequences. Mary appeared in the uppermost seat of the laird's velvet-covered gallery, and the old laird himself sat on the chair next her; she was dressed in white satin, and had a necklace of gold and diamond rings. This being the first intimation to the parish of Mary's exalted fortune, the flash of astonishment produced by it may be partly conceived. But it unfortunately so happened, that Mrs Blare, just a few minutes previous to that, had been talking of Mary's most shameful elopement in quite unmeasured terms. She said to Mrs Blunt, "What think you o' your light-heeled madam now?-the grand leader down o' our country dances and French curtillions! I trow she has gotten the whistle o' her plack now, what she has lang been fishing for. That comes o' presents o'silk gowns and riding-claes! It wad hae set her as weel to hae been cleaning her dad's byres yet, and supping her parritch out o' the riven bick

er.

But when Mary appeared in such splendour at the top of the laird's gallery, and it became manifest to all that she was now the young lady of Kilmeran, Mrs Blare was seized with a terrible qualm. She could not get spoken out aloud for fear of the minister, and in trying to contain herself, was so overcome that she fainted, and was carried out of the church. Then her youngest daughter having been seized with something of the same nature, mixed perhaps with concern for her mother, fainted likewise, and was carried out of the church. Then the eldest, and so on, till every one of the Misses Blare was carried out of church in a swoon, before the service concluded, and the whole of them were

driven home to Blare-hall in a cart, which was very heavily laden with female pulchritude. Dr Sinna attended, with lancet, unguent, and anodyne, and such a day of purgation was never seen at Blare-hall. But mark the event! Late in the night, Mrs Blunt sent a man on horseback to enquire for the family of the Blares, and to bring her particular word. The lad alighted, tied his horse to the door, went into the lobby, and asked a word of the Doctor, whose message was distinctly as follows:-"My compliments to Mrs Blunt, and inform her, that the ladies are all convalescent, every one, except Mrs Blare herself. I am not so sure about her, but think she too is in the same state."

Now, it so happened, that Mrs Blare's little private parlour and bedroom were directly off the lobby, and the door being open, every word of this unhappy message was perfectly audible to the nervous and oppressed dame. They fell on her ear like the chill tidings of death, and were more than her spirit or frame could bear. She grew worse from that minute, and raved all the night, and next day she was so much altered that they sent for the minister, who tried her with some religious consolation, but she could only answer him with some inarticulate ravings. It was currently reported that the last words she ever spoke were these:-The parson was saying something of the evil nature of sin, when she broke out aloud with, "Ou ay, sir! ou ay! an' a' for the sake o' sinning too! That's the warst o't! No ae silk gown or a pelisse amang them a'!" Then after two or three loud cries of distress, poor Mrs Blare yielded up the ghost, and left the minister and her attendants quite dumfoundered.

THE battle of "Bosworth Field" was fought about two miles from the town of Market Bosworth, in Leicestershire, on a spot called Radmore, or Red moor plain, probably from the colour of the soil. A little river called the Tweed, winds its way along the scene of action, which is now divided into fields and meadows, commanded by various eminences scarcely worthy the name of hills; but from which the whole may be looked down upon

as on a map.

. We had, with the assistance of a guide, visited all the various spots in the immediate neighbourhood, dignified, by oral or legendary tradition, as the camps of King Richard, King Henry, the Duke of Norfolk, the Lord Stanley, and Sir William. We had traced the progress of the battle itself over the uneven ground of the plain, and listened to the stories of our garrulous companion with patience, till his stock appeared to be exhausted; and then we dismissed him, in order that we might muse upon that scene alone.

On our left rose an eminence, still called Richard's Nook, because it is believed that he harangued his army from thence, previous to their descent into the plain which lay before us; and on which, in a field of little more than two miles in length, and scarce so much in width, the fate of England was decided on the 22d of August, 1485.

A battle, thought we-what is a battle, but the outbreaking of man's furious passions? There are sounds of trumpets and warlike instruments, the neighing of steeds, wild outcries, a "confused noise, and garments rolled in blood;" and men are swept by the sword from the face of that earth which must otherwise, in the common course of events, have been closed over them in a few short years. Here came the intrepid Richard, in the thirtythird year of his age, a veteran, and, hitherto, a conqueror. When a youth of eighteen, he had commanded the whole van of King Edward's army at the battle of Barnet, against the renowned Earl of Warwick, and bore down all before him, two of his squires being killed on that day fighting by his side. Here, to oppose him, came the Earl of Richmond, utterly igno

rant of the art of war, and, till the previous month, a wandering outcast in a foreign land; which he left, to engage in his desperate undertaking, with an armament so wretched and contemptible, as to excite no other feelings in the spectators than pity and derision.

But an eye that seeth not as man seeth, had looked down in pity upon our unhappy country. Within the previous thirty years, twelve battles had been fought between the factions of York and Lancaster, in which more than a hundred thousand English perished by the hands of their fellow-countrymen.

Here, then, it was decreed that the last of these unnatural and sanguinary conflicts should take place. A while it raged with fury, and victory seemed uncertain; there was a swaying to and fro among the warriors, as either party appeared, for an instant, to acquire the advantage. Anon, there came a whisper of treachery; and movements of doubtful import took place. Then a shout arose; and they pointed to where Richmond stood, in the midst of his steel-clad array.

It was the first time that Richard had beheld his antagonist. His dauntless heart swelled within him at the sight, and his eyes flashed as those of the hungry lion thirsting for the blood of his prey. Brief was the pause"Let true knights follow!" he exclaimed, "or I alone will try the event,"-and, with an impetuosity like that of the wild boar, which animal he had chosen as his crest, he rushed amid the thickest of his foes. With the rapidity of lightning his sword struck down Sir William Brandon, the standard-bearer, and his arm had hurled the proud ensign of his enemy to the earth. If valour might atone for crime, the memory of Richard would be spotless. Onward he pressed, and the brave fell before and around him. A firmer heart than Henry possessed might have quailed at such a moment. It is said that he retreated, whilst the infuriate King, after performing "more wonders than a man," was hemmed round by a multitude, and fell covered with wounds.

Thus, after a brief struggle of less than two hours, ended the battle of Bosworth Field, and with it terminated

the long-contested and bloody strife between the rival roses. But the events consequent therefrom were in progress for a long series of years, strange and complicated in their causes, and inscrutable in their course, to the eyes of man, but all under the direction of that Power that "bindeth up the waters in the thick cloud, and the cloud is not rent under them."

Let us turn, then, from the field of blood, and gaze upon the chief agents of that Power, as they come forward, each in his little day, unconsciously to perform his part.

The first that passes before us is King Henry VII., by whose marriage with Elizabeth of York the ancient house of Plantagenet became extinct. Thus England, long divided into two parties, father against son, and brother against brother, became united. His policy then led him to weaken the power of the barons, and dissolve that remnant of the feudal system which had hitherto placed the cultivators of the soil at the disposal of their lords, and," in a manner, enlisted under them, and kept in readiness to assist them in all wars, insurrections, riots, violences, and even in bearing evidence for them in a court of justice."

Thus were the "bold peasantry, their country's pride," relieved from a state of bondage, and first given to taste of the sweets of freedom. The faults of Henry were excessive avarice and inordinate love of power. By a continual straining of the then undefined prerogatives of the crown, he attained the latter to an extent unprecedented since the days of the great charter; and of the former vice, we shall soon have occasion to trace the consequences.

The first scene is here closed-and the conqueror of Bosworth Field is "gathered to his fathers."

What youth is this who next comes forward upon the stage, in the pride of his strength? Haughtily he walks, looking down on all around him, in the consciousness of unrivalled personal comeliness, and mental and bodily vigour. It is the Eighth Henry. Let us take his character from Hume. "The beauty and vigour of his person, accompanied with dexterity in every manly exercise, was farther adorned with a blooming and ruddy countenance, with a lively air, with the appearance of activity and spirit in all

his demeanour. His father, in order to remove him from the knowledge of public business, had hitherto occupied him entirely in the pursuit of literature; and the proficiency which he made gave no bad prognostic of his parts and capacity. Even the vices of vehemence, ardour, and impatience to which he was subject, and which afterwards degenerated into tyranny, were considered only as faults incident to unguarded youth, which would be corrected when time had brought him to greater moderation and matu rity."

But these vices did not pass away with his youth. On the contrary, they " grew with his growth, and strengthened with his strength," for they were destined to be the agents to goad him on to the performance of deeds which, in those days, cold and calculating men would have shrunk from attempting.

It was true, that in his person the long-contending titles of York and Lancaster were united, and therefore the minds of men were at liberty to study the welfare of their country in general, instead of the selfish aggrandisement of a party; but there was still an exotic, parasitical faction, an

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imperium in imperio," directed by foreign councils, and ever unnaturally preponderating in its influence over the affairs of England's government.

An Italian priest had assumed to himself the blasphemous title of "Vicegerent" of the Almighty, and the infatuated nations of the earth bowed down before him, and acknowledged the fearful claim. Why the Bishops of Rome, rather than those of Alexandria, Corinth, Constantinople, or Jerusalem, should have arrogated to themselves this monstrous title, was not the question. The tree had grown up, and its branches darkly overshadowed the earth, and the roots thereof had spread far and wide, feeding on the vitals of distant lands. In England they had struck deeply into the soil; they had entwined themselves in every establishment, political, moral, and religious. Their baneful effects might be felt, but no one was found bold or powerful enough to undertake the Herculean task of eradicating them. The soldier, reckless of all other danger, was so enveloped in the clouds of superstition, that he dared not to commence a war