By this time, a crowd of burgers was gathered about the spot, and old Simon himself awaked by the uproar, makes his appearance among them. At his request, the prisoner is committed to his care, and presently released by him, for reasons that the sagacious reader may be able to conjecture. One of the burgers, Oliver Proudfute, a bonnet-maker, meanwhile picks up a man's hand, which from its fairness and delicacy, as well as from a ring that sparkled on one of its fingers, was justly supposed to have been the appendage of some person of consequence. This Oliver Proudfute plays quite a conspicuous part in the progress of the story. He is a conceited, pragmatical, mouthing, cowardly cit, whose humour it is to be thought a fire-eater and a gay Lothario, the rival and companion in arms of the fighting Smith of the Wynd. In short, our bonnet-maker is a worthy associate of Fastolfe and Parolles, and an intolerable bore, withal, to the readers of the Fair Maid of Perth. The conversation among the burgers winds up with a proposition from Baillie Craigdallie, to meet at the same spot on the morrow, and adopt measures for the punishment of the offenders.

On entering the Glover's house, the Smith finds the Fair Maid of Perth upon her knees, returning thanks to Heaven for her recent deliverance. She refuses to attend to him for the present, but condescends to hold out to him a hope for St. Valentine's dawn. The honest armourer is again thrown into a fit of despondency, and we have some more puling about his unworthiness to match with Catharine, "who, coy and reserved as she is," it seems, appreciated the Smith's honest affection, "and had as much secret pride in the attachment of the redoubted Henry Gow, as a lady of romance might be supposed to have in the company of a tame lion, who follows to provide for and defend her." Such a feeling, at any rate, would seem to be less tender than romantic, yet the girl was not inclined to be ungrateful, and availing herself of the license of the day, she determined to be beforehand with the Smith, and make him her Valentine, whether he would or no.

Hastily slipping on her dress, which, nevertheless, was left a good deal more disordered than usual, she tripped down stairs and opened the door of the chamber, in which, as she had guessed, her lover had passed the hours after the fray. Catharine paused at the door, and became half afraid of executing her purpose, which not only permitted but enjoined the Valentines of the year to begin their connexion with a kiss of affection. It was looked upon as a peculiarly propitious omen, if the one party could find the other asleep, and awaken him or her by performance of this interesting ceremony.

Never was a fairer opportunity offered for commencing this mystic tye, than that which now presented itself to Catharine. After many and various thoughts, sleep at length overcame the stout armourer in the chair in which he had deposited himself. His features in repose, had a more firm and manly cast than Catharine had thought, who, having generally seen them fluctuating between shamefacedness and apprehension of her displeasure, had been used to connect with them some idea of imbecility.

'He looks very stern,' she said; 'if he should be angry-and then when he awakes-we are alone-if I should call Dorothy-if I should wake my father-but no! it is a thing of custom, and done in all maidenly and sisterly love and honour. I will not suppose that Henry can misconstrue it, and I will not let a childish fear put my gratitude to sleep.'

So saying, she tripped along the floor of the apartment with a light, though hesitating step, and a cheek crimsoned at her own purpose; and gliding to the chair of the sleeper, dropped a kiss on his lips as light as if a rose-leaf had fallen on them. The slumbers must have been slight which such a touch could dispel, and the dreams of the sleeper must needs have been connected with the cause of the interruption, since Henry, instantly starting up, caught the maiden in his arms, and attempted to return in ecstacy the salute which had broken his repose. But Catharine struggled in his embrace; and as her efforts implied alarmed modesty, rather than maidenly coyness, her bashful lover suffered her to escape a grasp, from which twenty times her strength could not have extricated her.

Let

'Nay, be not angry, good Henry,' said Catharine, in the kindest tone, to her surprised lover. 'I have paid my vows to Saint Valentine, to show how I value the mate which he has sent me for the year. but my father be present, and I will not dare to refuse thee the revenge you may claim for a broken sleep.'

'Let not that be a hindrance,' said the old Glover, rushing in ecstacy into the room-' to her, Smith-to her-strike while the iron is hot, and teach her what it is not to let sleeping dogs lie still.'" Vol. i. pp. 73-74.

New exhortations from the Glover to courage and confidence-new expressions on the part of the amorous Smith of diffidence and irresolution. Breakfast is served, and Conachar, who was not punctual in his attendance, is summoned to it. He makes his appearance, apparently very much discomposed, and after declining to eat, gives his master to be informed that he is for the Hills, and asks if he has any message for his father. It was in vain that the old Glover expostulated with him. Having addressed some words of hostility and defiance to the Smith, for what had passed between them, and a farewell, accompanied with a look of deep and mingled emotions to Catharine, he was, in five minutes afterwards, passing out at the north gate of the

town.

As soon as he was gone, Simon, under pretence of seeing that the Highland fugitive had made love to none of his master's goods, went into another part of the house so as to give the sheepish Smith an opportunity of addressing his daughter. This love scene is rather dull. Kate, as usual, falls into a declamation against the bloody doings of the age, for which they are all, and especially her most guilty paramour "to be called to judgment.” The Gow's answer is characteristic, and presents quite a ludicrous contrast to the philosophic sentimentalism of the fair preacher. The rest of their conversation is as uninteresting as such things usually are to all the world but the parties principally concerned.

The meeting of the burgesses now takes place. We must confess that we were far from being entertained with the proceedings and language of this august assembly, which are at once coarse and dull. We here, for the first time, make the acquaintance of a personage of the greatest importance in the sequel of the story, although "but a poor pottingar," as he humbly styles himself. This is Henbane Dwining, a diminutive, attenuated figure of a man,-a mere anatomy-remarkable for an extreme degree of affected humility, and an apparent effort to add, as much as possible, to his natural insignificance, by a timid, mean, and crouching demeanor. He boasts, however, with very little reserve, of having studied "both in Spain and Arabia"-and is secretly puffed up with an immense conceit of his superiority, in this respect, to the ignorant barons and burgesses about him. His character is nothing short of infernal— he is the willing instrument of the most diabolical atrocities, and seems to love evil for its own sake, and to delight in nothing but murder and mischief. Almost every thing he utters is accompanied with a silly giggle, which would be merely disgusting if we did not conceive it to be rather demoniac-a sort of hyena laugh.

The result of these deliberations is a deputation to Sir Patrick Charteris, provost and patron of the "Fair city of Perth." This expedition is not more interesting than the previous scene. The most striking incident that occurs, is the dismounting of the absurd bonnet-maker from his mare Jezabel, by "the Devil's Dick of Hell Garth." But the reader becomes heartily sick of Proudfute, and the Smith and Baillie Craigdallie, long before they arrive at Sir Patrick's. The Provost resolves to see them righted, and returns with them to the city.

We are now introduced into better company, and the story becomes far more interesting than it has hitherto been. We are in the royal presence. The feeble Robert III. who was, at that

time, a sojourner at the convent of the Dominicans at Perth, is confessing to the haughty Prior Anselm. Their conversation, which, although not very striking, is well adapted to display their respective characters, is interrupted by the sudden entrance of a gentleman usher, announcing the Duke of Albany. This aspiring and crafty politician approaches the royal seat:—

"My dear brother,' said the King, raising the Duke of Albany as he stooped to kiss his hand; 'my dear, dear brother, wherefore this ceremonial? Are we not both sons of the same Stewart of Scotland, and of the same Elizabeth More?'

'I have not forgot that it is so,' said Albany, arising; but I must not omit, in the familiarity of the brother, the respect that is due to the King.'

'Ŏh, true, most true, Robin,' answered the King. "The throne is like a lofty and barren rock, upon which flower or shrub can never take root. All kindly feelings, all tender affections, are denied to a monarch. A king must not fold a brother to his heart-he dare not give way to fondness for a son !'

Such, in some respects, is the doom of greatness, Sire,' answered Albany; but Heaven, who removed to some distance from your Majesty's sphere the members of your own family, has given you a whole people to be your children.'

Alas! Robert,' answered the Monarch, 'your heart is better framed for the duties of a sovereign than mine. I see from the height at which fate has placed me, that multitude whom you call my children-I love them, I wish them well-but they are many, and they are distant from me. Alas! even the meanest of them has some beloved being whom he can clasp to his heart, and upon whom he can lavish the fondness of a father! But all that a King can give to a people is a smile, such as the sun bestows on the snowy peaks of the Grampian mountains, as distant and as ineffectual. Alas, Robin! our father used to caress us, and if he chid us it was with a tone of kindness; yet he was a monarch as well as I, and wherefore should not I be permitted, like him, to reclaim my poor prodigal by affection as well as severity?'

Had affection never been tried, my liege,' replied Albany, in the tone of one who delivers sentiments which he grieves to utter, means of gentleness ought, assuredly, to be first made use of. Your Grace is best judge whether they have been long enough persevered in, and whether those of discouragement and restraint may not prove a more effectual corrective. It is exclusively in your royal power to take what measures with the Duke of Rothsay you think will be most available to his ultimate benefit, and that of the kingdom.'

66

"This is unkind, brother,' said the King; 'you indicate the painful path which you would have me pursue, yet you offer me not your support in treading it.'

'My support your Grace may ever command,' replied Albany; "but would it become me, of all men on earth, to prompt to your Grace severe measures against your son and heir! Me-on whom, in case of failure-which Heaven forefend-of your Grace's family, this fatal

crown might descend? Would it not be thought and said by the fiery March and the haughty Douglas, that Albany had sown dissension between his royal brother and the heir to the Scottish throne, perhaps to clear the way for the succession of his own family?—No, my hege-I ean sacrifice my life to your service, but I must not place my honour in danger.'

'You say true, Robin-you say very true,' replied the King, hastening to put his own interpretation upon his brother's words. We must not suffer these powerful and dangerous lords to perceive that there is aught like discord in the royal family. That must be avoided of all things; and therefore we will still try indulgent measures, in hopes of correcting the follies of Rothsay. I behold sparks of hope in him, Robin, from time to time, that are well worth cherishing. He is youngvery young-a Prince, and in the hey-day of his blood. We will have patience with him, like a good rider with a hot-tempered horse. Let him exhaust this idle humour, and no one will be better pleased with him than yourself. You have censured me in your kindness for being too gentle, too retired-Rothsay has no such defects.'

'I will pawn my life he has not," replied Albany, drily.

And he wants not reflection as well as spirit,' continued the poor King, pleading the cause of his son to his brother. 'I have sent for him to attend council to-day, and we shall see how he acquits himself of his devoir. You, yourself, allow, Robin, that the Prince wants neither shrewdness nor capacity for affairs, when he is in the humour to consider them.'

'Doubtless, he wants neither, my liege,' replied Albany, 'when he is in the humour to consider them.'

'I say so,' answered the King; and am heartily glad that you agree. with me, Robin, in giving this poor hapless young man another trial. He has no mother now to plead his cause with an incensed father.That must be remembered, Albany.'

'I trust,' said Albany, the course which is most agreeable to your Grace's feelings will also prove the wisest and the best." "

pp. 137-139.

This conversation is interrupted by the trampling of horses, and the Prior who stood opposite the window which looked into the court-yard of the monastery, announced the arrival of the Earl of March, adding at the same time with great astonishment, that a strolling glee-woman with her viol, was preparing to sing under the royal windows, and in the cloister of the Dominicans! Upon March's entrance into the room of the palace, an altercation of a disagreeable kind ensued between him and Albany, to put an end to which, the poor old king called their attention to a pleasing strain of Minstrelsy, beginning with somewhat of the wild joyousness of the Provençal melodies, but gradually dying away in plaintive and melancholy notes.

"The offended Earl, whatever might be his judgment in such matters on which the King had complimented him, paid, it may be supposed,