surely my prejudices, if they are not for, are not against them; yet, God so help me, as I declare my firm opinion, they are beyond all other men the most disagreeable, the most unaccommodating, the most arrogant, the most supercilious, and the most unamiable: I do not say that I have not met with many exceptions, and when I did meet with them, they were of the noblest kind; but the bulk of the nation are as I have described them." A Scotch officer of my acquaintance lodged some years ago at the house of a goodhumoured Dutch woman, at the Cape of Good Hope. "I no like the English officers," said she on one occasion to him, "half so well as the French; Frenchman lodge in my house, he be very civil, he talk to me, he say, how do do, madame? how is monsieur, votre mari? how is mademoiselle, votre charmante fille ?' But Englishman come in de morning, stalk, stalk; he no speak to me, he no speak to my daughter, he drinks off two great cups of tea, and then he says, ' me was d-d drunk last night.""

There is hardly a nation in Europe which has not taken English money, for which they have given nothing in return, not even their affection or esteem. Even those who were the longest defended by us would, I fear, exult in our mortifications, rejoice in our distresses, and triumph in our overthrow. This may be great ingratitude in them; but is it not a two-edged sword which wounds either side? does it not likewise prove great mismanagement in us?

T

CHAPTER XXI.

The emigrant-Reflections on emigration-Scenery-Strabane.

Strabane.

I

I DID not leave Newtown Stewart till the day was pretty far advanced. It was Sunday. The people were going to meeting, as a place of Presbyterian worship is called, and to church, as I was turning my back on them. The day was beautiful: the earth was clad in the garment of summer; the heavens were without a cloud: I was in the great temple of nature, and worshipped the Being whose bounty gave it birth. I had but a few miles to go; I sauntered, therefore, rather than walked. I was overtaken by a boy driving a car, with a chest and some furniture on it. It was followed by a good-looking young man and woman; their eyes were red, and their faces inflamed. thought they had been drinking or quarrelling-they were crying: the man turned his head round, as if ashamed of his grief; the girl did not turn hers, she seemed even to invite my glance. In a woman's tears there is a softness that seeks sympathy; in a man's there is a sternness that rejects it. I asked her if they travelled far? "I do not," she said; "he does." "Do, Peggy, darling, do turn now," said the man; "ye ha gone far enough; we man part, and isn't it best to have it our ?" "I'll just gang the length of that auld tree on the tap of the hill," replied she; "many a sorrowful parting has been at it, and we'll put ours to the number." "The best friends must

sometimes part," I said; "you will soon, I trust, have a happy meeting." "Never, never, surr, in this leefe," said the girl; "when we pert now, my hert tells me it is for ever. Ah! man, man, gin ye had na been prude, gin ye had trusted to Providence, and staid at hame-what though we could na get the ferm -what though we could na live in a stane house, they could na keep us out of a scraw one. I would have wrought for ye, and slaved late and early; and gin we could na ha got bread, we could have died together." "Dinna, Peggy," said the man, "dinnu break my hert, it has enough to bear already; dinna make me shame myself," again turning his head to conceal his tears: “it is a braave country I'm ganging to, woman," resumed he; "there's nae hard landlords nor prude vicars there to tak the poor man's mite. I war'nt ye, I winna be slothful, and whene'er I earn the price of your passage, I'll send it our, and then wha will pert us?" "You are going to America, I presume?” said I. "Yes, surr, please God; this is no country for a poor man to leeve in. I thought for a wee bit of land—but it's nae matter; God forgive them that wronged me, is the worst that I wish them.” "You have been wronged, then?" I said. “A, surr, it's nae to seek that I could say-but we winna talk o' that now, for I wish to gang in peace with all men. I would na hae cared for myself; a know that man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards; and wee God's help, I dinna fear either hertship nor difficulty; but that poor lassie-she was aw to me in the world, and to pert with her is a sore tug-I man own it; but it was my fate, and I could na get our it," concluded he, beginning to whistle for fear he should cry.

The poor lassie walked by his side, apparently unconscious of what he was saying: she moved mechanically forward, for the large drops that every instant gathered in her eyes, and fell on the ground as she walked, must have prevented her from seeing. "Now, Peggy, honey," said he, " we are at the tap o' the hill; the road is rugged, ye hae a lang way hame, and ye hae na me too." Here the tears that were dropping fast prevented his proceeding. " I will never, never leave ye," said she, starting from her reverie, and clasping him in her arms; "I will never leave ye; I will go barefooted our the world-I will beg with ye, sterve with ye, dee with ye; one ship shall carry us, one grave shall houlde us-nothing but death now shall pert us."

Is it that passion is uniform, and makes use of similar modes of expression in every age and clime, or that the foundation of this thought was laid in ideas that were not original, but acquired? This woman was a Presbyterian, and of course had read the Scriptures; its expressions probably floated in her memory, and she used them without being conscious of it. It is impossible not to be struck with the resemblance her speech bears to the beautiful and pathetic address of Ruth to her mother-in-law:

"Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.”—Her grief was too highly wrought to admit of reasoning, and both she and her companion

seemed exhausted by want of nourishment as well as affliction. I therefore took them into a little public house on the road side, and got them some oat-bread and butter, and whiskey and water. I easily convinced her how absurd it would be to think of going in that unprepared condition to America; I remarked to her that her lover was an active young man, would have a few pounds in his pocket when he landed, and probably would soon earn enough to take her over decently. They grew more composed, and parted, though with deep, yet with less frantic sorrow.

I walked a few paces on; the young man soon overtook me. "See what a beautiful day this is," I said; "the sun shines on your setting off." "Let him shine on her I left behind," said he, " and he may spare his beems to me. Mony and mony a time we ha' seen him set, from the hawthorn bush in my father's garden; but that's over now, as well as every thing else." "It is not over, I hope," I said; " you will, I trust, have as many happy hours as you have now sorrowful ones; but if you should not, remember that affliction is the common lot, and that you have no right to expect to escape it. You have health, you have youth, you have (I doubt not) the testimony of a good conscience, you have the approbation of your own mind, for manfully acting your part in life: of these your enemies cannot deprive you; they will follow you to America, and gladden the wilderness where you may chance to reside; they will sweeten the rude morsel that labour procures you; they will lull you to sleep in the sound of the torrent's roar; while greatness, that wants them, shall find its costly viands insipid, and seek, in vain, repose on its gilded sofas and beds of down.

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