ately upon his royal master's landing, he would be summoned to report certain needful details; and he feared leaving the high trusts committed to him behind in the castle, within the very grasp of Argyle, without also leaving some one empowered to destroy them in his absence, should any misfortune render such a measure necessary. As Miss Mackay's character had opened upon him, he had been struck with the thought, that Providence had in her provided him with the very person he needed. Time and further observation only strengthened this opinion; when, just at this point, and while still in doubt, a summons had arrived, commanding him to repair to another staunch friend of the Stuarts, where Charles Edward's most confidential agent was expected from France. It was at this eventful moment that Miss Mackay had opened the way to confidence, and he was now in consequence disclosing to her all that had weighed so long on his mind, and asking her cooperation.

His auditor listened to all he had to tell with the deepest interest; for she had ever been taught to consider Charles Edward her rightful prince, and the thought of being in any way able to devote herself to his service brought the fire to her eye, and the warm blood into her cheek

When the Laird, in conclusion, asked, whether she would take upon her the charge of what he must leave behind, or, refusing that, simply give him her oath never to divulge what she knew, she readily promised to do all he had asked, and, kneeling down, took an oath to this effect on the little pocket Bible the Laird had brought with him. He then opened the iron chest, and displayed its contents. There were, besides the parchments he had mentioned, several leathern bags, which he told her contained money and jewels, contributed by faithful Scotchmen to the cause. He then begged her to listen carefully to the instructions he would give her. He was going instantly to join the Prince's party in Inverness, and, when gold was needed, would send a messenger she might entirely trust, to whom she must deliver it under the shadow of night. The arrival of such a messenger would be notified to her by the figure of a cross being cut on the trunk of a great ash tree which grew opposite her chamber-window; and a certain number of very small crosses cut under the large one would notify the number of bags she should give him. If, instead of money, the messenger should have to announce defeat and disaster, a figure of an axe should be marked on the tree instead of a cross; in which case her business would be to destroy every written paper or parchment in the chest. After that, he bid her use her own discretion whether to remain in the castle or depart; he himself by that time would probably be lying a corpse on the field of battle. In conclusion, he assured her, that he did not believe himself to be bringing her into real danger by the commission he now gave her, adding further directions, that on seeing the given sign on the tree, she was to repair at night to the same spot where he had met her, go down to the vault, bring up the bags, and, before opening the door into the quadrangle, (of which the messenger would have no key,) one was to give the pass-word," Bruce," to which the other would answer, "Charles Edward." She then might open the door and deliver the bags into his hands; the messenger would give a voucher in return, which she must go back to deposit in the iron chest, and her duty would be over.

If, however, the secret announcement were disaster, she might burn the documents, one by one, at the candle in her lantern. "Mark," he said, in conclusion, " mark, I pray you, all the peculiarities of the places you will have to pass through, so that nothing may embarrass you, should accident extinguish your light. Above all things, remember to leave the trap-door well settled on its supports, as it opens only from the outside. For Heaven's sake, be careful to observe this!"

After some further discourse, as to what would be best to do for his sister in case of his death, they found it

time to return. Miss Mackay most carefully noted all his movements; learnt the secret of the spring which opened the trap-door, and passing with her guide through the solitary chambers, found herself again in the court of the quadrangle. Here she received from him the key of the tower door, and the more important one belonging to the chest; and they then took a solemn farewell of each other, as he was to leave early next day. More than a fortnight passed before Miss Mackay was called upon to execute any part of her commission. length, one morning, on going to her window, which she now always did on first rising, she observed a cross marked on the ash tree, and two smaller ones cut below it. She could not help feeling some apprehension, as she thought of the task that lay before her. The remembrance of the large deserted chambers of the gloomy vault, to be descended at midnight, now and then appalled her; but she concealed all appearance of anxiety, and passed the day as cheerfully as usual.

At

Half an hour before midnight, when every one was asleep, she lighted her lantern, and wrapping herself from head to foot in her plaid, issued from the dwellinghouse into the first court. The moon shone brightly, and everything was so calm, that her confidence returned. Encouraging herself by thoughts of prayer, she reached the door of the tower, and there a faint sound made her turn towards the place whence it proceeded. A gentleman in a highland dress instantly stepped forward into the moonlight, from the archway where he had been standing, and, with an inclination of respect, whispered the word "Bruce." In the same tone, she answered, "Charles Edward," and hurrying into the tower, locked herself within it.

She had remembered every direction, so that she found no difficulty in reaching the vault. The bags were so heavy, that she found it necessary to carry each separately to the foot of the tower stairs. She then opened the door, and, without either uttering a word, the bags of gold were exchanged for the receipt; and, once again locking herself in, she returned to the vault, and from thence, when her task was done, returned to her own room. The whole had been accomplished so easily, that, after this, she felt no alarm or anxiety on her own account for any future errand of the same kind with which she might be entrusted.

The Laird's absence, meanwhile, crept on from week to week; neither by public report nor private information did any news of Charles Edward's landing reach her; and her zeal for his cause kept her in constant nervous watchfulness. Winter was now far advanced her young friend, anxious about her brother, whose absence was unaccountable to her, and alarmed, too, at living without his protection in that lonely place, at such a season, claimed more and more of her care. Some kind friends from a distance would, every now and then, leave their homes, and spend a day or two with their timid young friend; but these meetings often more than failed in their object, from the ill-chosen nature of their topics for conversation. With long fireside-evenings came stories of murder and witchcraft, of ghosts and apparitions, all of which had a peculiar fascination for the poor young lady at the time, though they left her less fit than ever to sustain cheerfulness under adverse circumstances. Even Miss Mackay's stronger mind was not proof against the effect of these gloomy histories; and, after an evening thus spent, she did not feel her nerves in the fittest state for executing the commission she had received that morning, by the given sign on the ash tree. She remembered, too, that the deserted chambers she had to pass through were reported to be haunted. She would not, however, suffer such imaginations to hinder her in the performance of her duty; and, at the appointed hour, she set out on her errand.

Instead of the friendly moonlight which had cheered her before, a fearful tempest now raged without. The roar of the distant sea was heard in the intervals of the still louder wind, which pealed like thunder through

the mountain chasms. The crash of trees, and the fall of fragments from the ruined walls of the castle, added to the noise and danger. Not a star was visible; every thing was wrapped in thick darkness. Some fear she could not but feel, as she hurried through the tottering trees and groaning ruins; and, added to this, she fancied she heard footsteps behind her, as it were pursuing her. It was a relief when she reached the tower-door, and could lock herself within. Lighted by the dim fiame of her lantern, she passed along the suite of rooms, the wind howling through them, and rattling against the loose and broken casements. Her hand shook a little, as she settled the rests of the trap-door; but by degrees she regained her composure, and, counting out the bags of gold which had been sent for, she carried them down, one by one, as before; delivered them with the given signal to the messenger without; locked the door again, and returned once more to the vault with the voucher, in order to deposit it in the iron chest. Just as she was replacing it there, she was startled by a loud crash, followed by a thundering clap. After a moment's pause, she flew up the steps to see what was the cause. She had not yet realized her misfortune: it was the trapdoor which had fallen,-blown down by a sudden gust❘ of wind, which had forced in the window just above it. In a moment she understood the full misery of her situation. Her first effort was to push against the door, hoping it was not firmly fixed in its place; but it resisted her wildest efforts of strength, and she remembered that the Laird had said it could only be opened from without. Again and again she repeated her ineffectual efforts, and in despair called aloud for help. The wind alone answered her cry, pealing in the distance above her.

There was but one person who could help her-the owner of the castle, who was far away: and, as she paused from the wild energy of her first despair, she began to doubt how far it would be right, even if it were possible, to call for other aid, if she could only procure it by revealing a secret in which the lives and fortunes of so many were involved. She sunk upon the steps in a confusion of dreadful feelings; the dews of death seemed to spread over her as she faced the full horrors of her situation. She saw she must either risk the discovery of this awful secret, or be content to remain where she was, and perish by slow degrees. How light and easy would death on the scaffold have appeared to her, contrasted with this solitary lingering fate of horror! Thoughts like these for a time rendered her passive; then she would revive her hopeless exertions for releasing herself, till, exhausted by fatigue, she could do no more. At length, wearied and hopeless, she left the steps, and returned into the vault, and throwing herself on the damp floor, from which her plaid was her only protection, she tried to compose herself, and seek for patience and submission in prayer. She lay listening to the dreary sounds which reached her from without, to the progress of the storm, and to the heavy rain which succeeded it, and which she could hear pour down through the rafts in the roof upon the trap-door of her dungeon. From this sound, dreary as it was, she gathered that there was some chance of her cries being heard, should she determine on its being right to use such efforts for her release.

The storm had subsided, so that she could hear the clock strike five her lantern had long burnt out, and she remained in total darkness, as hour by hour passed by at length noon struck, though no ray of light reached her to tell her of the cheerful day. Sounds of life from a distance came upon her ear, only making her own state more terrible; she became bewildered by wild thronging thoughts, and almost unconscious; for a few moments she called piercingly for help. She thought how heavily her death would weigh on his mind who had unwittingly led her into such a grave. In alternations of distraction and resignation the day wore away. She grew weak from want of food, and a sickening feeling of exhaustion came upon her, which she knew

to be the precursor of sharper and fiercer pangs of hunger. Her head became giddy, and she feared her senses were leaving her; but, with a strong effort of will, she overcame the temptation to wander, and fixing her mind on the thoughts best suited for such an hour, gave herself up to the will of her heavenly Father, and resigned herself wholly into His hands. Every moment she felt herself grow weaker. Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth; she could utter no audible sound; her head grew more dizzy; her limbs were benumbed; by degrees sense and recollection failed her, and she sank lifeless on the steps of the vault. It seemed as if death had come to her relief. But there was help at hand for her. By a wonderful chance, as it would be called, but more justly by a merciful providence, it so fell, that twenty-four hours after the Laird had despatched his friend to the castle for the gold they were in need of, he found he had immediate occasion for one of the papers in the iron chest; and, as the best and shortest means of obtaining it, he set out himself. Having the master-key of all the doors, he had no occasion to go into the house, but proceeded at once, it being nightfall, to the tower-door. It was his intention to leave a line on the chest, informing Miss Mackay of what he had done, for he did not deem it prudent to venture into the house, or see his sister. He walked calmly through the desolate apartments, observed the damage done by the wind, and at length he lifted the trap-door, and was descending, when his light fell upon the bright colours of Miss Mackay's plaid. In alarm and astonishment he gazed on the motionless form, pale as death, that lay extended before him, and at once comprehending what had happened, sprang down the remaining steps, and flew to her assistance, if indeed help did not come too late. Happily he carried a flask of spirits with him, and succeeded in pouring some drops into her lips. By slow degrees she revived, and within an hour after sinking into unconsciousness, she opened her eyes on him who had been sent to her rescue.

Before asking her any questions, he made her swallow a few morsels of the oaten cake he happened to have with him. Under this refreshment she soon revived; and her deliverer could now give utterance to his thankfulness at having thus come in time for her relief, pledging himself never more to require of her a similar effort of friendship and loyalty. She was too lost in thoughts of gratitude to Heaven for her wonderful deliverance, to hear what he said, or listen to the plans he was forming to entrust his friend the messenger henceforward with the entire accomplishment of his hazardous errand. At length she roused herself to arrange with him the best mode of accounting for her absence without exciting dangerous suspicions; then, refreshing herself with another small portion of his travelling fare, she left her prison, and, supported by his arm, reached the last court before the house, where she took leave of her conductor, who, much as he longed to see his poor sister, dared not venture to show himself.

Her absence could only have been observed since breakfast time; and, as she was in the habit of taking early morning walks, it might well be supposed that, tempted by a gleam of fine weather after the night's storm, she had ventured out, and that the subsequent heavy rain had detained her in the shelter of some distant cavern or sheiling till its violence had abated. Weak and exhausted she entered the house, and was received with the utmost delight by her friend, who had been in the greatest alarm on her account. Miss Mackay, who was evidently too weak for much conversation, spoke of having been seized with a fainting fit, of her inability to send word where she was to the castle; and her friend, occupied in attending upon her obvious wants, readily credited the few words which implied rather than told what it was desirable she should believe, and, in anxiety for her health and comfort, all farther questions were forgotten.

Here Miss Mackay's share in the perils of the rebellion

ended. The Laird soon after fell, according to what had seemed his presentiment, at the battle of Culloden. Subsequently Miss Mackay became the wife of the Highland gentleman, who, as messenger to the castle, had shared with her the secret of the tower. He had been struck by her courage in undertaking so arduous a commission; her manner and appearance, during the very few opportunities he had of seeing her in their mysterious communications, had strengthened this first impression; and his had been the footsteps which she had heard in the fearful night of the storm, as he followed her in the hope of protecting her from the dangers of her road. They were married abroad, where their poor young friend remained with them, till Scotland was quiet enough to admit of her returning thither, and taking up her abode once more in her brother's castle, among her own people. There she was often visited by her faithful friends and their children; and there the heroine of this history her

self repeated the singular adventure that had happened

to her within its walls.

[It is exactly a hundred years since the occurrence of the events detailed in the foregoing narrative; and, although that was not the consideration which suggested to us the placing it first in the first number of this Magazine, yet it forms a circumstance of coineidence which it appears to us may, with much propriety, be taken advantage of and followed up. There is, undoubtedly, no more real relation between events and conditions of society separated by precisely defined intervals of time, than between any others; there may be much less; still the mind delights to seize hold of such intervals, as resting-places from which to look around, and to institute those comparisons, and lay the foundation for those generalizations, which constitute the really valuable results of historical studies. It is true, there is no year whatever of which it may not be said, that something remarkable happened exactly one hundred years before; and that so this sort of relation of suggestion is a mere peg on which anything whatever may be hung. It may be so; but it never was held a good reason why a man should not observe the anniversary of his own birth, or those of his friends, that there is not a day in the year which is not some one's birth-day. The year 1745 forms most unquestionably a cardinal point in the internal history of this country. It witnessed the closing act of a drama which had been played with more or less continuity for more than a century. It closed one volume of our history, and opened a new one. Its events gave a new direction to the hopes, and energies, and industry, of a large portion of the people, and so laid the foundation for much of that advance in wealth, enterprise, and improvement, which is now the astonishment of the world. We propose, therefore, in pursuance of this idea, to lay before our readers, in early numbers, a few papers on the leading events connected with the rebellion of 1745, and on the most remarkable contrasts presented by the condition of the world, and of this country in particular, then, and at the present day.-EDITOR S. L. M.]

RURAL SKETCHES; WITH HINTS FOR

PEDESTRIANS.

No. I.

HE who has been immured for months in this great overgrown modern Babylon-which, probably, is even more vast than that ancient city, whose magnitude and magnificence have given to it an undying fame-will do well to bid farewell to the

city for a season-to buckle his knapsack on his shoulders, and with his oaken stick in hand, to wend his way, with his back to St. Paul's.*

it is of little importance to which part of the comHaving resolutely turned his face to the country, pass he directs his steps; sufficient it is for him, that in every direction around him and the city, a goodly portion of Nature's fair domain is stretched out, in endless variety of wood and water, of hill and dale, of green pasture lands and hope-inspiring corn-fields, and the wide-spread and wellplanted park, whose hushed stillness is oftentimes broken by the sudden trampling of deer.

Nor are these all that will claim his attention. The cottage which smiles amid a profusion of roses and honeysuckles, and the sweet-scented mignioship, and inconvenient from its contracted breadth nette: the rustic bridge, often of rude workmanand its steep ascent, yet forming an appendage to a landscape which the painter loves to transfer to his canvas-and the ivy-clad ruin, the castellated building of the feudal times, whose walls have been rent and shattered in the fierce battle-strife of civil war; and those peaceful and holier piles whose aisles, day by day, were wont to resound with the matin and the vesper, but, alas! have been madly defaced and destroyed by sacrilegious hands. and therefore picturesque hall, whose name has for In another locality he will find the old-fashioned, centuries been associated with that of the family of right ancient descent, whose pedigree may be traced back to the time of the conquest of England by William the Norman, and who, while the crown of England has descended from one royal house to another, and has been successively worn by the Plantagenets, the Tudors, the Stuarts, and the Guelphs-have retained possession of the estate and the manor; and in an unbroken line, from one generation to another, they have descended in worshipful alliance, gracefully wedded to the name of the family, whose residence there has been most highly beneficial to the neighbourhood. beautiful streams and rivers which gladden the face Nor will he fail to ramble on the banks of those of nature. They will arrest his attention, and decoy him from the turnpike road and the foot-path through the fields and the coppice, to more unfrequented places, where the disciples of Izaak Walton pursue their gentle craft. The half-trodden path will conduct him through scenes of surpassing beauty, which will make him not regret the change for, it may be, a rougher road. Here he will

"Find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing."

And here it will be well for him to remember what the good and the pious Izaak Walton says: "When I would beget content, and increase confidence in the power, and wisdom, and providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many other various little creatures that are not only created, but fed, man knows not how, by the goodness of the God of Nature, and therefore trust in Him. This is my purpose; and so. Let every thing that hath breath praise the Lord!""

"The sun knoweth his going down," and when the shades of evening dim the more distant parts of the landscape-when the noisy, yet not altogether

*Written ia September.