AN OLD SCOTTISH AIR.

Ar the close of the seventeenth century, some parts of Scotland were still as much harassed by freebooters as the south of Italy and Greece are now infested by brigands. In these old times, the Scottish local authorities went to work in a very peremptory way when they chanced to catch a band of marauders. The whole were summarily tried, hanged, and done with. Many who exposed themselves to this merciless treatment might be gentlemen possessing some pleasant accomplishments, but that made little difference. Numbers of 'pretty men,' as they were called, ended their days on the gallows. Very cruel all this, as some may think; the policy pursued, however, was efficacious in clearing the country of roving desperadoes a hint worth taking by Italian and Greek authorities who play at catching, trying, and letting off the hordes of brigands whose continued existence is the scandal of Southern Europe.

At the time referred to as regards Scotland, there was a noted Highland freebooter, James Macpherson, a man of uncommon personal strength, and an excellent performer on the violin. He was really a pretty man,' and considering his musical abilities, it was a pity he followed the profession of robbing, and generally murdering those who had the misfortune to fall into his hands. After holding the counties of Aberdeen, Banff, and Moray in fear for several years, he was seized by Duff of Braco, ancestor of the Earl of Fife, and tried before the Sheriff of Banffshire, November 7, 1700. At this period, the sheriffships were hereditary, with the power of adjudging to death, and such was the allotted fate of the handsome violin-player.

When lying in prison under sentence of death, Macpherson composed a song and air; the song referring to his condition, and the fortitude which he would shew at his execution. According to tradition, when brought to the Gallows-hill of Banff, he played the tune on his violin, and then asked if any friend was present who would accept the instrument as a gift at his hands. No one coming forward, he indignantly broke the violin on his knee, and threw away the fragments; after which, he submitted to his fate. If what is related of Macpherson's immense personal prowess be true, we would take leave to doubt his being left at liberty to play on the violin beneath the gallows; and this part of the story may be pronounced rather mythical. The sword of the freebooter is still preserved in Duff House, at Banff, and is a weapon which could be wielded only by a person of great muscular strength. His bones were found a few years ago, and were allowed by all who saw them to be much larger than the bones of ordinary men.

The song composed by Macpherson being of a coarse type, was in time superseded by verses by Burns, which were an improvement on those of the freebooter, the original air being preserved, and still known as Macpherson's Farewell, or Rant. Like all he wrote, Burns's song bears the mark of genius. Lockhart has called it 'a grand lyric.' It begins as follows:

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch's destinie!

Macpherson's time will not be long

On yonder gallows-tree.

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,

Sae dauntingly gaed he;

He played a spring and danced it round,
Below the gallows-tree.

Singularly graphic as are the verses of Burns, they too painfully portray the audacity of an unrepentant freebooter when about to expiate his crimes on the gallows, to have kept their place in popular appreciation. The song may be said to have gone completely out of use, and the very peculiar and beautiful air is in a sense lost. In short, the subject has ruined the tune. Only a few lovers of Scottish music know that it is to be found in Johnson's Musical Museum, vol. i. p. 137 (1787). Among the ardent admirers of Macpherson's Farewell was the late Dr Robert Chambers. He often played it on the piano, to the accompaniment of one of his daughters, Mrs Dowie. A short time previous to his death, he begged for some music, and was gratified by her playing to him his favourite air, Macpherson's Farewell. This incident has suggested to his surviving brother, Dr W. Chambers, the writing of the subjoined verses, embodying the cheerful and kindly sentiments which he expressed until the last, and adapted to a copy of the air that he so much admired. They are an attempt at reviving a lapsed air, now upwards of a hundred and seventy years old.

DR ROBERT CHAMBERS'S FAREWELL.

Farewell, my loving children dear,
Who gather round my bed,
My fleeting life is nearly gone,
My pilgrimage is sped.

Yet cheerfully, still hopefully
And thankfully, will I

Resign this feeble mortal frame,
And fear not now to die.

Farewell, the land o'er which I've roamed,
The land of song and story,

Where oft the brave have fought to save
The Scottish name and glory.

Yet cheerfully, still hopefully
And thankfully, will I
Resign this feeble mortal frame,
And fear not now to die.
Farewell, fair scene, my native vale,
In beauty ne'er surpass'd,
My friends, my books, companions all,
On whom I've looked my last.

Yet cheerfully, still hopefully
And thankfully, will I
Resign this feeble mortal frame,
And fear not now to die.

In youth, I bore misfortune's blast,
But bright rewards were won ;
And now, when passing to my rest,
I say: 'THY will be done.'

Thus cheerfully, still hopefully
And thankfully, will Î
Resign this feeble mortal frame,
And fear not now to die.
One word alone, ere I am gone,

Oh, live in peace and love,
That when you've dree'd your earthly weird,
We all shall meet above.

Thus cheerfully, still hopefully
And thankfully, will I
Resign this feeble mortal frame,

AND DIE AS MAN SHOULD DIE!

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH

No. 482.

PRICE 1d.

ESPERANZA:

AN INCIDENT OF LIFE AT SPA.

Do you know the music-room in the Redoubte at Spa? The large expanse in the centre of it is kept clear for dancing, and spectators whose minds and toes are not light or fantastic, remain in the cloisters which surround it, and which are well supplied with comfortable chairs and sofas. Sometimes it happens that the young men are indolent or timid, and the young ladies stiff, and then the smooth shining floor is a desert, and in spite of the floods of light and music, there is something depressing about the general aspect. But that was not the state of affairs one August night, although the majority of visitors present were English. There had been a great deal of fraternisation at the tables-d'hôte of the different hotels; walking, riding, driving parties had been made up daily; the foreign element was just sufficient to correct the British stiffness, without being numerically strong enough to provoke its exclusiveness. Altogether, a very pleasant little society was formed in the place that season. Millicent Lund was an attractive member of it; a handsome, high-couraged girl; an orphan, sole surviving child of a drysalter, consequently an heiress. While at school, from the age of twelve to nineteen that is, she was happy, but her guardian's wife had patronising manners, which Milly quietly put up with till she was twenty-one, and then took charge of herself—that is, she engaged one of her old governesses, who was getting too blind and deaf to teach, and would consequently have been otherwise destitute, to accept the nominal position of taking charge of her; but of course it was a sinecure. People were shocked; but much Milly cared for that! She sat on a sofa behind one of the pillars, talking to a black-haired man of about thirty, who was dressed rather too well for the expression of his features, which was intelligent. 'I am afraid of you, Mr Bertram,' she was saying.

'Are you?' he replied. "How people are maligned; I heard that you were afraid of no one.'

'Perhaps you have been slandered also.' 'Shall I tell you a romantic story?' 'O yes; please.'

said

'Do not let your expectations rise,' Bertram; 'there is nothing sensational about it. Upwards of a year ago, I happened to be staying at Brussels during the Carnival. The Countess G. had a fancy to give a masked ball, and I received an invitation. It was a very brilliant affair, and at the same time the company was select, for the hostess received all her guests on arrival singly, and unmasked, in a small ante-room, so that none but those who were properly invited could gain admittance. I had not been in the room five minutes before I saw a blue domino, who produced the most extraordinary effect upon me that I have ever experienced. Up to that time I had laughed at mesmerism, presentiments, everything which is connected with a mysterious intercommunication of spirits. But now the fact of the existence of secret sympathies was forced upon me. I knew at once that this was the only woman I could ever love. Of course I had often thought myself in love before, but now I saw that I had given that name to a passing fancy, which never reached my heart. I spoke to her, I danced with her. How the night. passed, I have no idea; it seemed gone before it had well begun.'

'You saw her face before she left?'

'Not for a moment. Nor was I able to discover who she was, or where she came from, afterwards. That she was English, I am confident, though she spoke Italian all the evening.'

'I am quite interested,' said Miss Lund. 'What was her height, and her figure?' 'Like yours.'

'Indeed! And the colour of her hair?' 'Yours exactly.'

'And you have never met her again?' 'Not till this evening.'

'Really, Mr Bertram,' said Milly, laughing, 'you almost look as if you were going to claim me as your mysterious domino.'

'No; I remember my promise.' 'And that was?'

Really, you have kept your word, and told a veritable romance; the lady has only to turn out a ghost or a ghoul to make it complete,' said Miss Lund; but as she spoke, she started and turned pale; it was only with an effort that she completed her sentence.

Bertram, looking round for the cause of this emotion, saw that a new arrival at Spa, a man whom he knew slightly in England, had just entered the room, and he experienced that pleasing thrill which animates a pointer on snuffing a gamey scent, or a dramatic author when the idea of a plot comes into his head, for he relieved the tedium of a somewhat lethargic existence by watching the little social romances going on around him. If he had been a tattler, this might have proved a mischievous propensity; but he kept his discoveries to himself, or only intimated them to the principal actors, for his amusement consisted in knowing what other people failed to perceive. The young man who had just entered moved up the room, looking right and left for acquaintances. Presently, he saw Bertram, who came forward and shook hands with him, asked him when he had arrived, what hotel he was staying at, and other little commonplaces, while he was answering which he saw Miss Lund, and could not prevent a slight start before he bowed coldly. The young lady replied with a distant bend of the neck.

You know Miss Lund?' said Bertram. 'I have met her once or twice. But they are going to dance again, and as I am not in a mood for violent exercise, having only just swallowed my dinner, I shall go and have a look at the Trente et Quarante.'

Though not a gossip himself, Bertram by no means objected to take occasional advantage of the gleanings gathered by members of that fraternity, so he went and sat down by Mrs Cracket.

'So you have been making love to the heiress,'

said she.

'Rash, under your very eyes, wasn't it?' he replied. But what is there between her and Graham ?'

'Do you mean to tell me that you don't know?' 'How should I? I was not aware of Miss Lund's existence till this evening.'

'Well, they were engaged for ever so long; he was at her house every day; most improper, with only that poor old Miss Corney to act as chaperone; when suddenly she broke off the match. The airs these parvenus give themselves!'

'Was there no cause, then?'

'Oh, I suppose it was some jealous whim, and there may have been occasion for it. You men are all alike.'

This was quite enough for Bertram to start upon, and he made no more inquiries. But he enlisted himself in the troop of the heiress's admirers, which was pretty numerous, 'took the Lund shilling,' as he himself expressed it, and being an adept in the art of making himself agreeable, was soon promoted to the rank of leading partner and first shawl-carrier, vice Williams and Venables, told off respectively to Miss Corney and the lapdog. This distinction did not puff him up unduly, for the discriminating young man perceived that the preference was afforded him because he seldom approached the topics of love or matrimony, and

age.

Yet there were times when she assumed a

coquettish air, which seemed to invite him to more serious flirtation, but this was invariably when Graham was present, and appeared to be observing her.

'Now,' said Bertram to himself, 'there are two courses for the male spoon to pursue either, to clear out of the place altogether, or to follow the female spoon's lead.' Graham adopted the latter course, and harnessed himself to the car of a handsome young widow, who dressed gorgeously, rode fearlessly, talked slangily, danced untiringly, and sat down to play.

The manners of the little English community assembled at Spa were very much relaxed from the standard set up by each individual member at home. Persons, even of different sexes, spoke to one another without a formal introduction; young ladies danced sometimes twice consecutively with the same partner. The majority only went once to church on Sunday, and devoted the rest of the day to long walks in the woods, the perusal of secular journals, and listening to the band, which played other music than Handel's. Many who frowned at sixpenny whist at home as gambling, staked their florins and five-franc pieces at roulette and rouge-et-noir. But there was one tacit law which the female portion of the British visitors adhered to religiously, and that forbade them to take seats at either of the play-tables. might stand behind, and make their little stakes over people's shoulders, with an air of assumed indifference as to whether they lost or won, if they pleased. That was considered to be mere lookingon. But to sit down like a regular Gambler, with a big G, was held to be a fearful breach of propriety.

They

And this crime Mrs Geylass, the young widow, committed. She constantly took a seat, which was obsequiously vacated for her, at the unsocial board, removed her gloves, took a card and pin, piled her stock of napoleons into little heaps in front of her, and went in for the thing in the most business-like way, her admirers clustering round, and backing her luck; on the principle, I suppose, that imitation is the sincerest flattery. The admirers alluded to were all men; their mothers, wives, and sisters abhorred her to a woman. They would have cut her, only her late husband's cousin was a lord, and her own father a baronet, and she was rich. Blood and money cover more sins than charity, so they bowed and smiled, and answered when she spoke to them. But that was not very often, for the widow preferred masculine conversation.

This was the lady to whom Graham now devoted himself; he procured nosegays for her; he contended for the honour of her hand in the ball-room, and her foot when she mounted on horseback, and his attentions were always most earnest when Milly Lund was present. Bertram smiled approval. Graham is no fool,' thought he; he has selected the next most attractive girl; just as the Lund has selected the next (in her blinded judgment) most attractive man.' This soliloquiser had no false modesty, you see.

Having thus ascertained that these two young people were desperately in love with one another, Bertram no longer gave himself the trouble of paying so assiduous a court to Miss Lund, and

cultivated the acquaintance of Graham, who was too much a man of the world to shew a reserve which might betray jealousy, if he felt any, which is doubtful. The two men had not chanced to meet often, but they had been thrown together some two years before in the settlement of a domestic matter in which Graham had behaved in a manner calculated to excite Bertram's esteem, and he was inclined to like the man who knew better of him than most other people did. For our loves and friendships depend quite as much upon men and women's opinion of ourselves as upon their own intrinsic merits.

They breakfasted at the same little table; they strolled afterwards in the hotel garden, smoking; they also consumed their last cigars at night in company, and waxed confidential. At least, the one who had something to confide did it, and Bertram learned that Graham was on the point of going out to Africa, to shoot big game.

The other visitors at Spa made a totally different arrangement for the young man, and decreed that he was about to marry the lively widow forthwith. Mrs Cracket announced the forthcoming event to Millicent Lund as an ascertained fact, and the young lady, believing it, went mad. I do not mean that she required a strait-waistcoat, or put wildflowers in her hair, or sang scraps of song, or danced with her shadow. She did not even shew any emotion before Mrs Cracket and the gossips, but smiled, and remarked that she supposed it was a good match; for she was not of an hysterical nature. But her mind was for the time unhinged, for all that; and she was quite capable of doing some desperate thing which society would have brought in Temporary Insanity. It was quite true that she had broken with Graham, but then he had no business to marry any one else; &c. How could she appease her resentment; how prove that she did not care one iota for the man she had once been betrothed to? If she could only take the initiative; that would be better still. No one can throw off the restraints conventionally imposed by their fellow-creatures with impunity; if Milly Lund had not indulged her tastes for independence and originality to such an extent; if she had had any experienced friend of her own sex in whom she had confidence, to advise her, she would never have been guilty of writing, on a sheet of lemoncoloured note-paper: Let me see you to-morrow morning.-M. L. and dropping it, with her handkerchief, at the Redoubte, when only Bertram was near enough to pick it up. The wisp of paper was not addressed to anybody in particular; that was the only shred of prudence she shewed; but then she gave it almost with her own hand, which was very shocking.

If Graham had known that I had this in my pocket, he would hardly have bidden me such a friendly good-night!' said Bertram, on examining the note before going to bed. And then he put it carefully away in his pocket-book. When he called at Millicent's lodgings, he found her alone, not even Miss Corney being present. She had a wild, excited look in her eyes, and a deep flush on her cheek; and directly the door was closed, she stepped hurriedly towards him.

'Do you know why I have invited you here?' she asked.

Bertram looked as many volumes as he could, and bowed discreetly.

Instead of throwing himself at her feet, seizing her hand, and calling her by her Christian name, as he ought to have done, Bertram said, in a musing tone: 'Curious! I was never at a ball in Brussels in my life.'

'Oh!' cried Millicent, shrinking away, covering her face with her hands, and shedding tears of bitter shame and humiliation.

'I hope you will forgive me,' Bertram continued. 'I had no idea you would believe my rodomontade, which was only made up at the moment for fun. Pray, do not be distressed; I know all about it. It is pique which has impelled you to listen to the suit of so unworthy an individual; if it were otherwise, I should indeed esteem myself the most fortunate of men. As it is, it is happy that I am neither a needy adventurer, nor an unscrupulous lover, or perhaps you might have been hurried into a marriage which would have proved the misery of your life; and Graham would be eaten by lions, hugged to death by gorillas, stamped out by elephants, poisoned by snakes and quinine, and-and all sorts of things. By-the-bye, do you know that he is off to the Cape next month?'

Millicent was too much overwhelmed by appreciation of the position she had placed herself in, to reply; so Bertram went on:

They have made up a story about his engagement to Mrs Geylass. Absurd! If he cannot marry one lady, I am certain he will never take to another, unless perhaps an Ashantee. Not even for pique. I do wish, dear Miss Lund, that you would make a friend of me, and tell me the real cause of offence in Graham. Do not think me curious and impertinent; I only ask because I have a suspicion that I might be able to remove some false impressions. I was left trustee to a young lady, a cousin of my own, to whom Graham was once engaged; and I know that when the affair was broken off, he was very much blamed. Can that sad business have caused you to think badly of him?'

'Had I-not-a right-to do so?' sobbed Millicent.

'Far be it from me to place a limit to the Rights of Women!' said Bertram. 'I only know that Graham was not one iota to blame in that sad affair, the fault being entirely on the lady's side; that he could have cleared himself in your estimation at her expense, if he had not pledged himself to silence; and that he kept that pledge, when the happiness of his life was at stake, is very much to his credit. It is no romance that I am telling you this time, Miss Lund; I give you my word of honour that what I say is true. I was one of those to whom Graham made the promise of secrecy.'

When you have nothing more to say to a woman who is crying, it is best to go away. So Bertram went.

When he parted from Graham that night, he said: By-the-bye, I have something to give you, old fellow.' And opening his pocket-book, he produced the little undirected note, and handed it over.

On the following morning, Millicent had another caller; an unexpected one this time.

'I have got your note,' said Graham, seeing that she looked startled. What may I hope?' 'My note!'

She could not think what else to say. It did well enough.

'But,' said Millicent, after an hour's conversation, 'you were very proud yourself, you know, Harry, not to make any appeal to the trustee people to explain.' And though he did not think so, he owned it; just as he would have owned anything just then.

He did not go to Africa to shoot gorillas; he stopped at home, and married the heiress. He is very fond of Bertram ; but I do not think his wife likes his friend so well as she professes. That little scene was too humiliating.

GREAT MEDICINE MEN.

It was a remark of one who was himself famous as a conversationalist, that if he had to choose a conversable companion out of a strange company, he would select a doctor. However dull such may naturally be, his profession must at least have made him acquainted with curious phases of human life; or, at all events, with the diseases to which flesh is heir; and which, since they may one day happen to ourselves, have a certain interest for us. Similarly, a chatty book on Doctors and Patients* must needs have an interest for the general reader which cannot be claimed by a similar work on lawyers or parsons; and if the materials are well arranged, it can scarcely fail to please. Mr John Timbs is far too well practised an author to make any error in this regard, and the result of his labours is two very pleasant and informing volumes. It has been bitterly observed of the medical faculty that the sun sees their practice, and the earth hides their faults.' But if this would imply their incapacity to assist, and even to save their patients, it is certainly, as a rule, a libel. To shew how science progresses, we have only to compare the proportion of those who used to die in hospital with those who do so now, from, of course, the same class of diseases. In 1688, the proportion of deaths to cures in St Thomas's Hospital was one in seven; in 1741, it had diminished to one in ten; in 1780, to one in fourteen; in 1815, to one in sixteen; while, during 1827, out of 12,494 patients, 259 only perished, or one in forty-eight! Again, the entire half of our population was at one time destroyed by one disease alone-small-poxwhile now, thanks to vaccination, this scourge has lost its terrors. Of all cases in Homerton Fever Hospital, not one death occurred to a properly protected person; the proportions having been to persons over fifteen years of age, the unvaccinated, forty-seven per cent.; the badly vaccinated, twentysix per cent.; the tolerably vaccinated, eight per cent.; the fairly vaccinated, four per cent.; and the well vaccinated, none at all.' None of the nurses or porters (all of whom, of course, had been well protected by vaccination) took this disease: a fact in itself which would convince all persons capable

*Doctors and Patients. By John Timbs. R. Bentley

and Son,

of reasoning upon this subject. That mankind grows wiser with growing time, there is, we hope, no doubt; but yet the proportion of ignorant and foolish persons will always probably be very large. The opposition to vaccination is now almost wholly confined to the lower orders, whereas in Jenner's own time he had to contend not only against the virulence of his own profession, but even against the denunciation of the pulpit. Indeed, it was thanks to laymen, and not to doctors, that that theory lived and throve which was destined to do the greatest good to the human race of any scientific discovery, save, perhaps, that of chloroform. It owed some of its success with the fair sex to the sagacious statement of Dr Meade, that 'to this salutary preventive the Circassian ladies chiefly owed their beauty.' Most fortunately, the disease against which it was directed did not visit the poor alone-no less than eleven of the offspring of the imperial House of Austria perished of it within fifty years- so that the question was neither neglected nor postponed, but constantly discussed. But putting small-pox out of the question, many other diseases have certainly been mitigated, if not eradicated, by the advances of medical science. Typhus fever once visited us every year, and carried off to the grave one of every three whom it attacked; whereas it is now seldom known as an epidemic, and when it does come, slays but one in eighteen. Consumption is the most formidable foe with which British skill has to contend; yet in the gross the mortality even from that cause has diminished by five per cent.

The principles which guided the early physicians were indeed, as might be expected, crude and vague enough. Galen's theory was simply this: Given a disease, determine its character as hot or cold, moist or dry, by an effort of imagination; having done so, select a remedy which has been catalogued as possessing opposite qualities. For dysentery, among other absurd prescriptions, he gives the ashes of snails.' If the practice of medicine was empirical-mere experimentalising that of surgery was in a still worse condition. When Felix operated on Louis XIV. for the stone, he was so doubtful of his own skill, as well as the results of it, that, though the operation was successfully performed, his agitation was so excessive that a nervous tremor settled on him for life, and in bleeding a friend the next day, he disabled the patient irreparably. 'When Felip de Utre went in search of the Omeguas from Venezuela, he was wounded by a spear just beneath the right arm. A Spaniard, who was ignorant of surgery, undertook to cure him, and De Utre's coat of mail was placed upon an old Indian, who was mounted on a horse; the amateur surgeon then drove a spear into the Indian's body through the hole in the armour, and his body having been opened, the spear being still kept in the wound, it was discovered that the heart was uninjured; thus they assumed that De Utre's wound was not mortal, and, being treated as if the wound were an ordinary one, he recovered. When Henry II. of France was mortally wounded by a splinter from a spear in tilting with Montgomerie, which entered his visor and pierced his eye, the surgeons, for the purpose of discovering the probable injury done to the king, cut off the heads of four criminals, and thrust splinters into their eyes as nearly at the same