pretended to sleep, showing, however, some signs of the restlessness that attends on being disturbed from sleep without our being fully aroused. The hideous visitor stooped down and stirred her. Peggy bore the touch of that hand on her shoulder without wincing in any way. The woman stirred her again, and she seemed gradually and naturally to become awakened. "Musha, it's the good sleep that's on you, a colleen," said the woman, as she sat up. "Yes, indeed, I'm not used to be without sleep so long, and I had none before this since I left the mountains," answered Peggy. "Is it very late? but I don't care much about that, as there's no use in my starting from you till the coach comes again to night, and gives me a seat for Dublin." "We'll tell you all about that by-and-by: get up now, my woman, an' break your fast; you ought to be hungry.' "And I am very hungry, and able to help myself out of anything you lay before me." The woman led her down-stairs. A good breakfast was prepared. Peggy seemed to eat with a keen appetite; but she continued to slip the bread she had cut into her large country pockets. The young man entered: she bade him a smiling good-morrow. He hoped she had passed a good night: she answered promptly and easily. "It's an odd question I'm for axin'," he continued, "but I thought I heard strange noises in a room next to yours last night-did you?" With the consciousness that the eyes of both were watching her face for a change of expression, Peggy baffled the inquiry. "It's said this ould house is haunted," rejoined the woman, "an' that's the ghost's room." "My faith isn't strong in ghosts," said Peggy, smiling; "but I'm glad you did not tell of it before I went to bed, or I might be kept waking." A pause ensued, during which she knew that her catechists were consulting each other by looks and nods. Why don't you ax afther your friend that helped to bring you to us last night?" pursued the lad. "I was thinking of him, but said to myself he was in bed, maybe; and as he's no kith or kin o' mine, only a stranger met on the road, I didn't believe it would be right for a young lone woman like me to be asking so closely after him." "He's not in his bed," said the lad, fixing his eye. She stood his glance. "No," resumed the woman, "but gone his road at the first light this mornin'." "Why, then, I'm sorry for his going." "How's that?" asked the lad. "Because I'm left without a farthing in the world, and I thought that, as he looked to be a dacent man, maybe he'd lend me a few shillings to take me on to Dublin; and now I don't know what to do under heaven." Never make yourself uneasy about that," remarked the hostess: "for if you thought he looked so like a dacent body, he thought you looked like a hansome colleen, as you are; an' for a token, hearin' o' your loss by the coach, he left us the very thing you're talking about, to give you when you'd get up." "Yes, he left this wid me for you," pursued the other, handing some silver, "and just his word to take care an' have as much ready to pay him in the next place he an' you are to see ach other." As he gave the money and spoke these words very significantly, he again fixed her eye; but Peggy allowed him no advantage. With many professions of thanks to her chance benefactor she quietly put up the supposed gift. Perhaps they became fully assured that they had nothing to fear, for they soon stopped questioning her. "I'll pay him, with hearty thanks, sure enough," she continued, recurring to the topic, "and sooner than he thinks, maybe. I have only to go to Dublin, to the Brazen-Head, where my father stops, when I'll have money enough; and after a word there, I'm to pass your door to-morrow, about the night-fall, when I'll be axin' a night's lodgin' from you again; and I can jest lave the honest man's shillings in your hands, and you'll give 'em to him the next time he calls, in Peggy Nowlan's name, and her best wishes along with 'em." The day wore away in common topics, and she showed no anxiety to depart. She said she grew hungry for her dinner; and, when it came before her, still seemed to make a hearty meal. No living creature came to the house during the day: but she could understand that the person called Maggy, and who she concluded was her wretched cousin Maggy Nowlan, and the other person called "the private," were expected during the night; as also a number of "the customers" from Dublin. Nothing had yet been said to deter her from proceeding to town in the night-coach, which, as usual, was to pass about three o'clock in the morning. She often alluded to its hour of passing by, and they did not make an observation. This gave her courage; and, after the night fell-for Peggy, still to avoid a shadow of suspicion, would not motion to stir in the daylight-she said, inadvertently, and yet with some natural show of anxiety to proceed in her interrupted journey-"Maybe I couldn't get a seat in it, an' what should I do then? But maybe I ought to take the road some time before ye expect it to come up, so that, when it overtakes me, if I get the place, well and good; and if I don't, why I could be so far on my way, and sure of walking the six or seven miles more to Dublin by the morning, anyhow; for I must be there in the morning: what brings me up is to get a good lot of money from my father, that'll be wanted at home the day after to-morrow, or the next day, at farthest; and so, ye see, honest people, I'm beholding to be soon back and forward, and, as I said, sleeping in your house, on my way to the country, by to-morrow night anyhow." They said little in reply to this; but Peggy believed they again exchanged some glances and signs, while her head was purposely held down; and then they retired to whisper at the outward door. Fervently did she pray, although the prayer involved an uncharitable contradiction, that, influenced by the hope of plunder she had held out, their resolves not to let her depart for the night might be changed. And perhaps her plan took effect. In a short time they rejoined her; and after a few ordinary remarks, said, by the way, that she might do well to "take a start of the road, afore the coach, just as she was a saying of it; and they wished her safe to Dublin, anyhow; and they hoped she would keep her promise, and come see them on her way home again." Without discovering any extraordinary joy at this concession, Peggy bid them a steady and cordial good-b'ye; engaged her bed for the next night; and it was not till the very moment she was crossing the murderous threshold that she feared her face and fluttered step might have given intimation of the smothered emotions that battled in her heart. But, again befriended by her extraordinary presence of mind, she checked her rising ecstasy, and trod with a sober and wayfaring step down the dark, tangled, and miry lane. When fairly launched on the broad road her breast experienced great relief; yet still she kept her demure pace, neither faltering, nor looking back nor about her, nor yet sure of the policy of rushing into the first cabin she might meet. Her heart whispered that the people of the abominable house might have noticed her parting struggle, and, after a little reflection, would perhaps follow her and put her to another trial. To her left, as she walked along, was some rather high ground, falling down to the road, little cultivated, and crowded with furze and briers. A straggling path ran through it, parallel to the road, but, at some distance, and, she believed, led to the lone house in the "bosheen.” Her eye kept watching this path every step she took. The moon shone full upon it so as to enable her to discern any near object. Peggy, her head down, and her regards not visibly occupied, soon caught a figure rapidly striding along the path, through the clumps of furze and briers. As it abruptly turned towards a gap in the road-fence, some yards before her, she could ascertain that this individual was closely muffled in the common female Irish mantle, holding, as Irishwomen often do, the ample hood gathered round the face. "That's not a woman's step," thought Peggy, as the figure issued through the gap: "and now this will be the sorest trial of all." And, with her suspicions, well might she say so. The gigantic resolution of her heart, so long kept up, had just begun to yield to an admitted sense of relief: she had just permitted her mind to turn and sicken on the contemplation of the horrors she had witnessed and escaped; an opportunity at last seemed created for an indulgence of the revulsion and weakness of her woman's nature-and now again to call back her unexcelled philosophy; again to rally herself; again to arrest and fix the melting resolution; to steady the pulse-throb, tutor the very breath, prepare the very tones of her voice; this, indeed, was her sorest trial. But it was her greatest too; for Peggy, assisted a little by the shadows of night, came out of it still triumphant. "God save you!" began the person in the cloak, in a female voice. Peggy gave the usual response with a calm tone. "Are you for thravellin' far, a-roon?" continued the newcomer. She said she was going to Dublin. "I'm goin' there myself, an' we may's well be on the road together." "With all my heart, then," answered Peggy, and they walked on side by side. "You're not of these parts, ma-colleen, by your tongue," resumed her companion. Peggy assented. An' how far did you walk to-day, a-chorra?" "Not far; not a step to-day; only from a house in a bosheen behind us a few minutes ago.' "What house, a good girl? do you mane the slatehouse that stands all alone in the middle o' the lane?" Peggy believed that was the very one. "Lord save us! what bad loock sent you there?" 'None, that I know of; why?" "It has a bad name, as I hear, among the neighbours, and 'ud be the last place myself 'ud face to for the night's rest.' "Well, a-roon, it's only a Christian turn to spake of people as we find 'em; I have nothing at all to say against the house; an' maybe it won't be long till I see it again.” "That's bould es 66 well as hearty of a young girl like you. Did you come across the woman o' the house?" "Yes, and met good treatment from her; the good tey, and good dinner, everything of the best." "But what kind of a bed did you get from her, a-hager?" continued the catechist, speaking very low, sidling to Peggy, and grasping her arm. This threw her off her guard. She shrieked, and broke from her companion, who, as she ran, fast pursued her; and the person's real voice at last sounded in her ear. "Stop, Peggy Nowlan, or rue it! I know what you think of the bed you got now!" The road suddenly turned in an angle; Peggy shot round the turn: as her pursuer gained on her she heard the noise of feet approaching in a quick tramp, and a guard of armed soldiers, headed by two men in civil dress, and followed by a post-chaise, met her eyes at a short distance; she cried out again and darted among the soldiers; one of them caught and held her from falling, and she had only time to say "Lay hands on the murderer!" when nature at last failed, and Peggy's senses left her. THE BANKS OF CLYDE. [Andrew Park, born at Renfrew, 7th March, 1807; died in Glasgow, 27th December, 1863. He published twelve volumes of poems, the most popular of which was Silent Love. He obtained considerable celebrity as a song-writer, and several of his songs continue to be held in high estimation. A complete edition of his poetical works in one large volume was issued in 1854 by D. Bogue, London.] How sweet to rove at summer's eve The earth with crimson beam; When island-clouds that wander'd far Above his sea-couch lie, And here and there some gem-like star Re-opes its sparkling eye. I see the insects gather home, That lov'd the evening ray; And minstrel birds that wanton roam, All hurry to their leafy beds Majestic seem the barks that glide, As night creeps o'er the sky, Along the sweet and tranquil Clyde, And charm the gazer's eye, While spreading trees with plumage gay, THE SPATE. A TALE OF THE CLYDE. [Thomas Atkinson, the writer of the following tale, was a bookseller in Glasgow, and the author of a great variety of fugitive pieces in prose and verse. He died of pulmonary disease while on his passage to Barbadoes for the benefit of his health, on 10th October, 1833, in the thirty-second year of his age. "The Spate" appeared in a Glasgow periodical named The Ant, published 1826-27, of which the author was editor.] tale. It was on the of —, 17—, that the fearful rise in the waters of the river Clyde carried away the stone bridge which crossed it at the foot of the Saltmarket Street of Glasgow. It is a day memorable in the annals of that city, but still more so in my private history, and the records of my recollection, and my love; for, old, and dull, and cold as I now am, I have loved. There is, far up on the wall of a building at a great distance from the usual channel of the stream, an indentation cut, to show the height to which its waters rose, and an inscription to tell the The tablets of my heart have a more deeply engraven line-a more enduring impress and record of that day of desolation. The waves passed not the limits of the one, and they left everything beneath as it was before. From me all that preceded that tidemark of fate is reft away, or is left shattered and broken; and still it would appear as if the gloomy waters rose above and passed beyond even that boundary-for, welling out from the fountains of a melancholy memory, the flood yet seems to sweep along the heart it left a desert, but which must dree its loneliness till the spring-tide of fate shall bear me away in its ebb to peace and-Isabella. She was the first-the only woman I ever loved. Dark-haired, bright-eyed, and nineteen, it was little wonder she caught my affection. Yet it was her heart that secured the love her charms excited-her mind that fixed into esteem what had else been but fleeting admiration. But I cannot go on to describe her. Suffice it, that in all her girlish beauty she seems still before me: could I paint that vision it would not add to my pleasure, nor yet increase the interest of my story. Her father was a highly respectable tradesman, who resided-fatally for me-in the lower part of the city. Modern improvements have swept away the last relics of a building where Cromwell resided for a time, and Prince Charles is said to have lodged for a night. Its historical associations and venerable exterior long made it an object of interest to the antiquarian and the stranger: its having been the dwelling of Isabella Oswald made me weep its fall. wearers. We never had a cross in our love till-but let me not anticipate. My mistress was too artless and candid to seek to conceal that my passion was reciprocated, and her widowed father too indulgent to his only child to throw any obstacle in the way of her happiness. The day was fixed which was to see her mine, and the wedding-garments already waited for the A trivial circumstance had deferred my happiness and our union for a wholemonth, as we then thought, for the corresponding day of the succeeding one was determined upon as the one fittest for the festivity, which could not be celebrated on the 16th of but we could then see nothing to prevent its being so on the 16th of Isabella's father was married on this day of the calendar, and he had been so peculiarly happy as a husband, that he seemed almost to think that no man could be equally so unless he was wedded on that identical day. Alas! this month was to be-eternity I had almost said—yet, yet surely I shall meet with my Isabella, and be again united with her in the bonds of enduring affection! It was fated to be lengthened, however, into all the weary years which have since crept along, and have yet to elapse before it is the will of the Giver of my life to resume it to himself and ask me for my compt. The winter had been very open, and the great quantities of rain which fell around Glasgow and in the upper ward of Lanarkshire, had repeatedly swollen the river Clyde to an uncommon height. But the house in which resided Mr. Oswald was so far from its banks that the successive spates never reached, nor even nearly approached it. At length, however, the frost set in with sudden and keen severity. A temporary thaw followed in a day or two, but was speedily succeeded by a considerable fall of snow, which lay on the hills above the county town, and round Tinto, to a great depth. The frost again became intense, but was of brief duration, for, returning from a wedding-party at an early hour on the morning of Saturday, it seemed to me increasing in bitterness; but, on rising from bed after a short rest, I found torrents of rain pouring down, the wind blowing a gale from the west VOL. I. In the ward, and the air unnaturally warm. city the thaw was instantaneous, and almost magical in its operation, sweeping the streets of their accumulated frost in a few hours. The gale increased as the day wore on, and the rain descended without intermission till evening, when the fury of both seemed to abate. About nine o'clock or the Saturday evening there was almost what the sailors call a "lull," and every one imagined the storm had altogether ceased. Although dwelling in a quarter of the city remote from Isabella's home, many of my evenings, as might have been expected, were passed there in the delightful anticipation of the approaching time when all our hours of leisure should be spent together. The business of the week concluded, I hastened to seat myself beside my untiring betrothed, who would hardly cease to ply her needle, or lay aside her work, even when my arm, hanging over her chair and perhaps even intruding upon her waist, interfered with the swift but ever grace. ful motion of her hand in sewing. My request itself, that she would be idle for a time, was but half conceded. But then-it was upon preparations for her new station-household comforts for her future husband-becoming garments for a young wife-that she was occupied! And she could speak and look-oh! speak by snatches, and look in glances, as she raised her eyes from her task-when so employed-more beautifully, as it seemed to me, than any other one could, with nothing else to do, and no other object to attain but admiration. Thus seated, we noticed not that the wind had again risen and the rain begun to pelt against the casement, until I gave my first threatening motion of departure. This, of course, preceded the actual effecting of it about an hour, but during that time it was evident that the storm had resumed all its violence. We were told, too, that the river was rising, and that those who lived near it were deserting their houses; but the thought of danger to the place where we sat never occurred. Elever o'clock arrived, and with a reluctance I was loath to exhibit and could not then account for-but which was the sensation the very brutes feel at impending calamity—I bade my Isabella good-night and proceeded to my distant home. It was in vain that I sought by occupation to weary myself into sleepiness when I had arrived there. The tempest increased, and with it my restlessness and agitation. To bed, however, I went; but certainly not to rest-for as the watches of midnight wore on, the gale became a hurricane, and came in such 13 terrific gusts of violence, as at each of them to threaten the destruction of everything that opposed its fury. In the midst of that, and even louder than its voice, was heard, ever and anon, the crash of some chimney that had given way, or the rattle of slates and shingles torn up from the roofs of tenements and precipitated into the street. The scream of human voices and the yelling of dogs followed these, and added to their horror; and, Sabbath morning as it was, the rattle of the wheels of carts, hastily summoned to bear away household furniture from dwellings which the affrighted tenants deemed insecure on account of their exposure to the tempest, to places of greater strength or better sheltered, had a very peculiar effect in heightening the impression of sudden danger and well-grounded fear. It was as if another element-that of fire-had been ravaging the neighbourhood. And it occurred to almost every one, that if that were to break out, with such a wind to fan it, the consequences would be terrible beyond even apprehension. Twice or thrice the terror led to the anticipation, and the alarm was actually, but erroneously given. It was impossible to remain in bed. The frightful thought flashing across my brain, that the gale setting so from the westward, and the snow melting with such unprecedented rapidity-the one swelling and the other stemming the river-might bring its stormy waters even to the dwelling of my Isabella, I hastily grasped at my clothes, that I might personally ascertain whether there was a chance of her suffering inconvenience. Danger I could not dream of from the stream, and the lowness of the site of her residence, while it might expose it to the flood, protected it from the gale. I dressed and made for the door. It was impossible, however, to pass through it. Beset by an agitated mother, screaming sisters, and younger brothers, I was alternately taunted with caring for my own safety above theirs, or for that of another individual rather than my "born relations," and assured and reasoned with that there could be no possible danger elsewhere, as the Clyde had never been known to rise to the height of Mr. Oswald's dwelling-house. This I was aware of, and hope and entreaty prevailed. I returned to my pillow; but, it is needless to say, I could not sleep. After having, however, procured the promise, that, with the first light of morning, a messenger would be sent to ascertain if our friends in the lower part of the city were in safety, and hearing the wind gradually abate, and the rain cease, I fell into a slumber which continued—agitated, indeed, with dreams of alternate vague delight and dim and dreary horror, but unbroken-until far in the morning, whose rays had been religiously excluded from my pillow. Once awake, it was but the work of a moment to ascertain that no messenger had been sent, and to prepare personally to ascertain the welfare of my future wife. By this time the day was shining as unclouded and bright as if it had been a forenoon in spring, and the wind blew with no more violence than to dry up almost every vestige of last night's deluge, in the higher streets of Glasgow. The bells rung for sermon, and well-dressed crowds passed calmly along as I apparelled myself— with something like deliberation! It seemed impossible that anything could have happened to Isabella's home, since not one vestige of all the crashing havoc we had heard appeared in the broad and sunny light of day: the few chimney-tops and slates which had been overthrown with a noise so disproportionate to the real danger and destruction, having been decorously removed from the Sabbath path of the church-going crowds. I began to feel in daylight almost ashamed of my midnight apprehensions and, however rapid my gait might be as I proceeded down the High Street, I did no more than walk. I even paused for a moment to answer an interrogatory from a passing friend -so assured was I willing to think myself that my fears had been visionary. The city cross was at length passed--but I ran as I approached that bend in the Saltmarket which, when turned, permitted me to see the building that held all I loved on earth. A crowd hid its lower part from me, but a glance told that all was secure on its roof. The throng extended, as it seemed, so far above her residence, as to block up the street at where it opens to St. Andrew's Square. I was but a moment in penetrating its outer rank-and finding myself, a few steps farther on, on the verge of a vast body of sullen and muddy water, which stretched thus far up, and onwards beyond where had stood the opposite end of the distant bridge, that now, in vain, I looked for! It had been swept away in the rapid and mighty current which threw its superabundant streams thus far into the city streets. All was desolation below where I stood. I was horrorstruck at the sight of houses before me whose first-floor windows, from the declivity of the descent towards the river, were almost under water, and the thought that Isabella and her father might have perished in seeking to escape in terror from a flood, that, though it could not reach their own apartments, might yet endanger the safety of the whole tenement, and, |