Julie. No- never, Adrien - never! Louis. (peevishly.) One moment makes a startling cure, Lord Cardinal. Rich. Ay, Sire, for in one moment there did pass Into this wither'd frame the might of France! My own dear France - I have thee yet—I have saved thee! I clasp thee still!—it was thy voice that call'd me Back from the tomb! What mistress like our country? Louis. For Mauprat's pardon ! — well! But Julie, — Richelieu ! Leave me one thing to love! Rich. A subject's luxury! Yet, if you must love something, Sire, — love me ? Louis. (smiling in spite of himself.) Fair proxy for a young fresh Demoiselle! Rich. Your heart speaks for my clients:- kneel, my children, And thank your King – Julie. Ah, tears like these, my liege, Are dews that mount to Heaven. [RICHELIEU beckons to DE BERINGHEN. De Ber. (falteringly.) My Lord - you are most happily recover'd Rich. But you are pale, dear Beringhen: Suits not your delicate frame - this air Or else your precious life may be in danger. Leave France, dear Beringhen! (To ORLEANS.) For you, repentance-absence, and confession! (TO FRANCOIS.) Never say fail again. Brave Boy! (To Louis, as DE MAUPRAT and JULIE converse apart.) See, my liege see thro' plots and counterplots Thro' gain and loss thro' glory and disgrace Along the plains, where passionate Discord rears Of human happiness glides on! Louis. And must we Thank for that also our prime minister? Rich. No let us own it: there is ONE above Sways the harmonious mystery of the world Ev'n better than prime ministers. Alas! Our glories float between the earth and heaven Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer. A Scotch Lady of the Old School. As soon as she recognized Mr. Douglas, she welcomed him with much cordiality, shook him long and heartily by the hand, patted him on the back, looked into his face with much seeming satisfaction; and, in short, gave all the demonstration of gladness usual with gentlewomen of a certain age. Her pleasure, however, appeared to be rather an impromptu than a habitual feeling; for, as the surprise wore off, her visage resumed its harsh and sarcastic expression, and she seemed eager to efface any agreeable impression her reception might have excited. "And wha thought o' seein' ye enoo?" said she, in a quick, gabbling voice; "what's brought you to the toon? Are you come to spend your honest faither's siller ere he's weel cauld in his grave, puir man?" Mr. Douglas explained that it was on account of his niece's health. "Health!" repeated she, with a sardonic smile, "it wad make an ool laugh to hear the wark that 's made aboot yonng fowk's health noo-a-days. I wonder what ye 're a' made o'," grasping Mary's arm in her great bony hand-"a wheen puir feckless windlestraesye maun awa' to Ingland for your healths. Set ye up! I wonder what cam o' the lasses i' my time that bute [behoved] to bide at hame? And whilk o' ye, I sude like to ken, 'll e'er leive to see ninety-sax, like me. Health! he, he!" Mary, glad of a pretense to indulge the mirth the old lady's manner and appearance had excited, joined most heartily in the laugh. "Tak aff yer bannet, bairn, an' let me see your face; wha can tell what like ye are wi' that snule o' a thing on your head?" Then after taking an accurate survey of her face, she pushed aside her pelisse: "Weel its ae mercy I see ye hae neither the red head nor the muckle cuits o' the Douglases. I kenna whuther your faither has them or no. I ne'er set een on him: neither him nor his braw leddy thought it worth their while to speer after me; but I was at nae loss, by a' accounts." "You have not asked after any of your Glenfern friends,” said Mr. Douglas, hoping to touch a-more sympathetic chord. wull ye let me draw my breath, man An' ye bute to hae an Inglish wife tu, "Time enough canna say awthing at ance. - fowk a Scotch lass wadna ser' ye. An' yer wean, I 'se warran' it ane o' the warlds wonders — it's been unca long o' comin' — he, he! "He has begun life under very melancholy auspices, poor fellow!" said Mr. Douglas, in allusion to his father's death. "An' wha's faut was that? I ne'er heard tell o' the like o't, to hae the bairn kirsened an' its grandfaither dein'! But fowk are naither born, nor kirsened, nor do they wed or dee as they used to du-awthing's changed." "You must indeed, have witnessed many changes?" observed Mr. Douglas rather at a loss how to utter any thing of a concilia. tory nature. "Changes! weel a wat I sometimes wonder if it's the same warld, an' if it's my ain heed that 's upon my shoothers." "But with these changes you must also have seen many improvements?" said Mary in a tone of diffidence. "Impruvments?" turning sharply round upon her; "what ken ye about impruvements bairn? A bonny impruvement, or ens no, to see tyleyors and sclaters leavin' whar I mind jewks and yerls. An' that great glowerin' New Toon there," pointing out of her windows, "whar I used to sit an' look out at bonny green parks, an' see the coos milket, an' the bits o' bairnies rowin' an' tumlin', an' the lasses trampin' i' their tubs what see I noo but stane an' lime, an' stoor an' dirt, an' idle cheels an' dinkit out madams prancin'. Impruvements, indeed." Mary found she was not likely to advance her uncle's fortune by the judiciousness of her remarks, therefore prudently resolved to hazard no more. Mr. Douglas, who was more au fait to the preju dices of old age, and who was always amused with her bitter remarks, when they did not touch himself, encouraged her to continue the conversation by some observation on the prevailing man ners. "Mainers!" repeated she, with a contemptuous laugh; "what ca' ye mainers noo, for I dinna ken? ilk ane gangs bang intill their neeocrs hoos, an' bang oot o't, as it war a chynge-hoos; an' as for the maister o't, he 's no o' sae muckle vaalu as the flunky ahint his chyre. I' my grandfather's time, as I hae heard him tell, ilka maister o' a family had his ain sate in his ain hoos; ayl an' sat wi his hat on his heed afore the best o' the land, an' had his ain dish, an' was ay helpit first, an' keepit up his owthority as a man sude du. Paurents war paurents then - bairns dardna set up their gabs afore them than as they du noo. They ne'er presumed to say their heeds war their ain i' thae days wife an' servants, reteeners an' childer, a' trummelt i' the presence o' their heed." Here a long pinch of snuff caused a pause in the old lady's harangue. Mr. Douglas availed himself of the opportunity to rise and take leave. "Oo, what's takin ye awa', Archie, in sic a hurry? Sit doon there," laying her hand upon his arm, "an' rest ye, an' tak a glass o' wine an' a bit breed; or maybe," turning to Mary, "ye wad rather hae a drap broth to warm ye? What gars ye look sae blae, bairn? I'm sure it's no cauld; but ye 're just like the lave: ye gang a' skiltin' about the streets half naked, an' then ye maun sit and birsle yoursels afore the fire at hame." She had now shuffled along to the farther end of the room, and opening a press, took out wine and a plateful of various-shaped articles of bread, which she handed to Mary. Hae, bairn - tak a cookie — tak it up what are you feared for! it'll no bite ye. Here's t' ye Glenfern, an' your wife, an' your wean; puir tead, it 's no had a very chancy outset, weel a wat." The wine being drank, and the cookies discussed, Mr. Douglas made another attempt to withdraw, but in vain. "Canna ye sit still a wee man, an let me speer after my auld freens at Glenfern? Hoo's Grizzy, an' Jacky, an' Nicky?— aye workin' awa' at the peels an' the drogs-he, he! I ne'er swallowed a peel nor gied a doit for drogs a' my days, an' see an ony o them 'll rin a race wi' me whan they 're naur fivescore." Mr. Douglas here paid some compliments upon her appearance, which were pretty graciously received; and added that he was the bearer of a letter from his aunt Grizzy, which he would send along with a roebuck and brace of moor-game. "Gin your roebuck's nae better than your last, atweel it's no worth the sendin': poor dry fushinless dirt, no worth the chowin'; weel a wat I begrudged my teeth on 't. Your muirfowl war nay that ill, but they 're no worth the carryin'; they 're doug cheap i' the market enoo, so it's nae great compliment. Gin ye had brought me a leg o' gude mutton, or a cauler sawmont, there would hae been some sense in 't; but ye're ane o' the fowk that 'll ne 'er harry yourself wi' your presents; it 's but the pickle powther they cost ye, an' I'se warran' yo 're thinkin' mair o' your ain diversion than o' my stamick whan ye 're at the shootin' o' them puir beasts." Mr. Douglas had borne the various indignities levelled against himself and his family with a philosophy that had no parallel in his life before, but to this attack upon his game he was not proof. His color rose, his eyes flashed fire, and something resembling an oath burst from his lips, and he strode indignantly toward the door. His friend, however, was too nimble for him. She stepped before him, and, breaking into a discordant laugh as she patted him on the back: "So I see ye 're just the auld man, Archie-aye ready to tak the strums an' ye dinna get a' thing your ain wye. Many a time I had to fleech ye oot o' the dorts when ye was a callant. Do ye mind hoo ye was affronted because I set ye doon to a cauld pigeon-pye an' a tanker o' tippenny ae night to your fowerhoors afore some leddies - he, he, he! Weel a wat yere wife maun hae her ain adoos to manage ye, for ye 're a cumstairy chield, Archie." Mr. Douglas still looked as if he was irresolute whether to laugh or be angry. "Come, come, sit ye doon there till I speak to this bairn," said she, as she pulled Mary into an adjoining bedchamber, which wore the same aspect of chilly neatness as the one they had quitted. Then pulling a huge bunch of keys from her pocket, she opened a drawer, out of which she took a pair of diamond ear-rings. "Hae, bairn," said she, as she stuffed them into Mary's hand; they belanged to your faither's grandmother. She was a gude woman, an' had four-and-twenty sons an' dochters, an' I wuss ye nae waur |