killing the poor silly lad, and therefore merely intended him a sound beating and a sad banishment; in fact, certain crimps were to have smuggled him into a man-of-war, and sent him to take his chance upon the wide ocean; how his people came to hover about the Thames at that inconsiderable distance from Marlow, he was at a loss to conceive, unless they had quite misunderstood his directions; and this one error had caused his delivery into the hands of justice; he repined not, he said: there was a time when all men must quit the world, and he believed his time was come. He had thought it a capital piece of policy to suspend his victim from a tree, to make it appear that he had hung himself, and to attend the inquest as a spectator, no otherwise connected with the affair than by sympathy; but, he averred, his heart sickened when he beheld the discolouration of the corpse, and he stood in terror lest the coroner and jury should ask what meant the stings and scratches visible on his hands and face, but which, singularly enough, they passed by without inquiry. This wretched man concluded, by strongly exhorting his friend Robert to take example by him, change his course of life, and steadfastly and efficaciously believe in that God, who is the rewarder of them that seek Him, but who will surely cause the sinner to be caught in the snare he lays for others! Such, continued Eleanor M., is the story of the Empty Grave, so called, you perceive, because it never was filled; and, but that the imperceptible hand of time, is gradually filling it up with leaves, grass, and creeping plants. Such is the superstitious veperation of the people thereabouts for this remarkable memorial of the dark deeds of other days, that it would for ever remain open. A COMPARISON. Roll on, roll on, thou silvery stream, Thou, like that stream, dost nobly dare, C. L. B. THE CORONATION OF THE BRUCE, BY THE LATE J. ATKINSON. "From Glasgow, Bruce rode to Scone, and there was solemnly crowned, on Friday. the 27th of March. Edward had carr ed off the ancient regalia of the kingdom, and the famous stone chair, in which, according to ancient custom, the Scottish kings were inaugurated. But the ready care of Wisheart, Bishop of Glasgow, supplied from his own wardrobe the robes in which Robert appeared at his coronation, and a slight coronet of gold, probably borrowed by the Abbot of Scone from some of the saints or kings which adorned his abbey, was employed instead of the hereditary crown. A banner, wrought with the arms of Baliol, was delivered by the Bishop of Glasgow to the new king, and Robert received beneath it the homage of the earls and knights who attended the ceremony. On the second day after the coronation, and before Fruce and his friends had left score, they were surprised by the sudden arrival of Isabella, Countess of Buchan, sister of the Earl of Fife, who immediately claimed the right of crowning the king It was a right which had undoubt edly be onged to the Earls of Fife from the days of Malcolm Canmore; and as the Earl of Fife was at this time of the English party. the Countess, a romantic and high-spirited woman, absconding from her husband, joined Bruce at Scone, bringing with her the war-horses of her lord. The new king was not in a condition to think lightly of any thing of this nature. To have refused Isabella's request, might give to his enemies some colour for alleging, that an essential part of ancient custom and solemnity had been omitted in his coronation. The English historians would have us believe that this enterprising woman was influenced by tenderer feelings than ambition or policy, but this is extremely doubtful. It is certain, that on the 29th of March, the crown was a second time placed on the head of Robert by the hands of the Countess, who afterwards suffered severely for her alleged presumption." Tytler's History of Scotland, vol. i. p. 232. There's the tramp of armed warriors-the tread of mitred priests, There are plaided gillies on the hall, and the hangers on at feasts; And more-bright scarfs and brighter eyes again are where they've shone, For the ladies of the land are come to see the pomp of Scone ! And what hath filled its stately halls with all this gallant throng Halls that have slept in emptiness and silence for so long? O! know ye not that on this day, without or leave or truce From English Edward, Scotland wills to make a king of Bruce ! There's cheer for Scotland yet, for see the noon-tide sun appears, In spite of all the morning's clouds and March's angry tears; It lights the hall, and on each face its rays of gladness shine, It leads thee to the empty throne-king Robert, make it thine? The tyrant stole the sacred chair, where sat a hundred kings, For where 'tis placed is Scotland's throne,—so old tradition sings; He read but half the omen, tho', for if it come not back, We yet may send a Prince to fill't, triumphant in its track! And he will wear that diadem, which we most deeply vow, Shall never, but as stolen gear, be seen on Edward's brow; For from the loins of him who now kneels down-to rise a king, -Plantagenet!-when thine hath passed, a monarch's race shall spring. What, tho' that golden band be all the crown we have to place Upon his head-who in each look leal love to death may trace; It needs no gems-for where be these in lustre that can vie With the fire that flashes out in pride from the Lady Buchan's eye! 'Tis her's, by right-the Scottish king-by love-the man, to crown, For this from craven Fife, her lord, the gallant one came boun'! Ah, Bruce! thou wilt be king, indeed, to Scotland's furthest parts, When thou shalt rule the land as much as now the ladies' hearts! But see, where Wishart's withered hands in blessing him grow young! There is no tremor in his frame, no falter on his tongue; He turns with humbleness, but hope, with the King of kings to plead, That he vouchsafe to ratify, in Heaven, this holy deed! And now the bravest of the land, with hearts and weapons free, To guard its rights to guard its prince, swear upon bended knee; And even tongues fear once made mute, in brav'ry now break loose; And a thousand voices shout as one," God save King Robert Bruce!" THE CASTLE. A FRAGMENT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED JOURNAL. It was a glorious scene for a painter: a ruined arch, an ancient building that seemed the remains of a castle, and the rich warm hue of sunset reposing upon every object. The landscape was worthy of Claude Lorraine, yet wild enough for Salvator. A painter and a pedestrian, wandering among the hills which separate Dauphiné from Savoy, in pusuit of objects for study, I drew out the materials of my art, and was soon deeply engaged in the most absorbing of occupa tions. The vesper bell was tolling from some mountain convent, summoning the monks to their evening devotions. A hymn rose in the distance, first faint, then swelling on the breeze of evening, and again dying away at intervals. Now, said I, with enthusiasm, for some figures to enliven the scene. Perhaps a troop of horsemen riding out from under that arch, bending their waving plumes, while their clanging armour and horses' hoofs should make the startled echoes ring among the rocks. It seemed like magic: hardly had I breathed the wish, when the hymn grew louder, and a procession issued slowly from underneath the arch, bearing aloft the standard of the cross, and the veiled Host, and chanting the Gloria in Excelsis. First came the peasants in their holiday dresses, their bodices laced with scarlet, their short, coloured petticoats and blue embroidered stockings, contrasting in fine relief with the dark dresses of the shaven monks; and their sunny complexions with the pale, austere faces of the holy brotherhood. The peasants prostrated themselves on the ground, while the setting sun gleamed upon the gorgeous canopy under which was carried the veiled symbols of the holiest of mysteries. There was something in the sudden appearance of the procession, and the solemnity of the hymn, so perfectly in keeping with the scene, that my mind was impressed with a holy awe, and I suspended my task to gaze in admiration. As they came nearer, I observed that there was no gladness in the eyes of the assembled peasants; and that when the Host had passed, and they rose from their knees, they did not, as usual, forgetting the momentary solemnity inspired by external objects of worship, resume their ordinary light-hearted expressions of mirth. On the contrary, they separated into groups, talked together in low whispers, and pointed to the castle with sad foreboding gestures. My curiosity was excited; and still more so, when I perceived an aged monk gazing in the same direction, with a sad and eager expression, while the tears rolled slowly over a face so pale, attenuated, and austere, that one would have thought no human feeling could have caused so deep an emotion in his breast. At length he turned away slowly, and as I rose and approached him, he mechanically returned my salutation with an air which betokened that his thoughts were in other scenes. But when I made known to him that I was a traveller, and in search of a night's lodging, he cordially bade me welcome to his convent, which he said was situated about a mile farther off, in a valley embosomed in hills. I gladly accepted his invitation, and as he walked along, endeavoured to obtain an explanation of what I had seen. "We have been carrying the Host to a dying person," said he, in reply to my question; but it was not until I was seated in the humble parlour of the convent that he related to me the following story: |