bending down his head upon the table, he cried till his heart seemed fit to burst, the poor woman standing by all the while in helpless pity. Relieved, and in some sort comforted by the tears he shed, Paul was at length in a condition to talk rationally with honest Mrs. Hopkins, who detailed to him the whole history of the village from the day of his quitting it. At length, yielding to her hospitable entreaties, he ate a little bread and cheese. Towards dusk he walked up to the inn, and made himself known, and told his story to Mr. Wilcox, who, when he heard him out, said— "Well, my boy, I can give you a good snug berth here, if you like to take it. I want a lad to help Bob to look after the horses, and the place will just suit you, so consider yourself quite at home, and take up your quarters in the stable till something better offers." CHAPTER XXXII.-OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES. An inn in the country is something like the backwoods in a new settlement; its wants and means are indefinite, so that a boy or man, more or less, on the establishment, hardly makes any difference. This accounts for the multitude of nondescripts whom one constantly sees hanging about inns and ale-houses with nothing particular to do, and nothing particular to expect, but who yet make themselves useful, and obtain a subsistence no one knows how, why, or wherefore. Among this army of oddities Paul was now enrolled, and there he vegetated, picking up indifferently virtues or vices, just as they came in his way. He met with no adventures, because the place was as stationary as he himself had now become. Nothing happened in it. People got up in the morning and went to bed again at night without having anything whatever to remember, except that they had eaten their breakfast, dinner, and supper, and washed their faces, or left them unwashed, just as chance would have it. There is something utterly abominable in such bodily and mental stagnation, I mean to characters with any energy or vigour in them. The commonplace part of the creation are content to live together, as trees grow beside each other in a jungle, standing upright and bowing oefore the tempest at the same time. They sigh at each other, as the winds determine, or smile together in the sunshine; their existence is as monotonous as that of a rout of bears hybernating in an Alpine cavern. With them there is, properly speaking, neither love nor hatred, friendship nor enmity, but a drowsy current of still thoughts and feelings, in which they mope away their insipid existence. Yet such are the people who, in common parlance, are denominated happy. I had rather, however, be the shuttlecock of fortune-I had rather be frozen one day to an icicle among the solitudes of the Jungfrau, and thawed the next among the lavas of Etna, than doze away life in that apathetic golden means which your social philosophers regard as the summum bonum. And Paul Pevensey, for his sins, had been plagued with as fiery a temperament as ever fell to the lot of a poor hero like himself. When not actually employed, therefore, he used to stroll about the village, and try to make adventures, and when he found it impossible to succeed, had recourse to building castles in the air. Plato, I know, is of opinion that this is a bad habit, which tends to weaken the dianoetic faculties. But I differ from Plato, and think, on the contrary, that there is nothing so refreshing as a good bout at castle building. In this happy state of existence you build your house as you please, make your coffers of the finest patterns, and stuff them to the brim with crowns, not to sleep and rust there, but to pass into active circulation, for the purpose of diffusing pleasure among those you love. But, chief joy of all! you can people your castle as you please-incarnate an impossible amount of intellect and tenderness in some form of mortal beauty, and make her as full of passion as the air is of sunbeams in summer. Paul, however, when he built his castles, did not run up their turrets so high. He had not yet arrived at that age. He fancied himself in a big house, with his mother and the Wilkinsons, with plenty of money and grub, and enough to do to exhaust his spare energies. Idleness never formed a part of his paradise. If he could not get work he wished to fight with some one, not out of malice, but because he did not know what else to do with his hands and animal spirits. Whatever wise people may say, there is a pleasure in pummelling, and being pummelled. It is a sort of safety valve, which helps to let off the steam that might otherwise blow up our microcosm. But whether happy or miserable, ill or well-employed, young people grow older and bigger; and so it fared with Paul. He made no progress any how, save in size and age, and at length found himself on the sunny side of seventeen. without knowing what was to be his settled course of life, or whether he should ever be anything better than a stable-boy at an inn. There is a power in some minds, however, which can fill even a stable with romance, and extract food for the imagination out of the smell of hay and oats, the jingle of bridles, and the comfortable noise of a horse's nose rubbing against a manger. One of his favourite employments would have immediately disgusted a civilised hero. He used to go out upon the moor, cut an immense quantity of young succulent furze, and bring it home upon his head to the stables, occupying himself with chopping it small in a trough as provender for the horses. He liked the peculiar scent emitted by the furze as the heavy chopper descended into it, and the exercise, which was rather violent, helped to keep his body in order, and restrain him from striking people just by way of gymnastics. Paul's figure now began to settle itself, as though it meant to take no further development in an upward direction. He was about the middle height. I wish I could with truth have said he was a giant, and marvellously beautiful besides. But truth is truth, and there is no use in disguising it. Paul, I repeat, therefore, was about the middle height, not an inch more or less; and though if he had been converted into marble, he would not have passed for the Apollo; in fustian and corduroy he was still handsome in his way. In fact, he still resembled his mother, though his eyes had more fire in them, and appeared every day to acquire a greater amount of fierceness. Happily, some little events of his history were unknown at Ulraven, otherwise people would have said it was the effect of the tigress's milk. In most faces there is one feature which gives a character to all the rest. In Paul's, it was the mouth. Few women ever possessed one more beautiful. It was formed after the finest modelneither too large nor too small; and his lips were superbly red, like Kate Pevensey's. The eyes indicate the intellectual character; the mouth indicates the stamp of the affections. He had inherited, also, his mother's paleness, though, like that of the southern nations, it indicated no delicacy of health, but, on the contrary, a constitution which could endure anything, and enormous physical energy. Mrs. Wilcox used to say, as he stood by the kitchen fire, confidentially to her husband, but loud enough to be overheard "I think our Paul be the handsomest boy in the parish." To which Mr. Wilcox, with stereotyped fidelity, replied— "And what's more, wife, he is the honestest and best boy, either in or out of it, for twenty miles round..” "It's a pity, though," continued Mrs. Wilcox, "he's so fond of fighting." "Yes, just so," replied the husband; "but what other amusement has he? Paul felt exceedingly grateful for the favourable opinion the innkeeper entertained for him, though it made him sad to think he had scarcely any other amusement. However, he kept up his reading, and when he could get at a book would leave horses, hay, furze, and all to devour it in secret. Among his favourites were "Don Quixote" and "Gil Blas," "The Arabian Nights," “The History of the Buccaneers ; works all well calculated to improve his morals and whet his appetite for adventure. To escape from the dreary uniformity of Ulraven he would have followed the Knight of a Rueful and Countenance to his combat with the windmills, or have boarded a Spanish galley with Sir Henry Morgan, over decks and gunwales reeking with blood. Not that he was at all savage or ferocious; he only longed for action of some kind or another, and to escape from a state of existence which he thought little better than that of a spaniel in leading-strings, He said nothing of all this, because he had no one to whom he could speak; and by the people of his own age he was rather disliked than otherwise, though if questioned they would have found it hard to tell upon what feelings were based. Both Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox, however, were very partial to him, because he was respectful and obliging, and never inclined to spare himself when there was anything to be done. One evening, in an idle mood, Paul walked down the village with his hands in his breeches' pockets, looking the very picture of a person in search for some healthful excitement. On turning sharp round a corner he came bang against a man the sight of whom sent back his thoughts to the very earliest dawn of recollection. Paul begged pardon, and retreating a step or two, stood still to gaze on the individual, and make sure there was no mistake. The stranger seemed to be occupied by the same feeling, for he did the same; and there they stood for a few seconds, puzzled and bewildered. Paul was the first to speak :— "Mr. Link," said he, "don't you know me?" 66 Why, Paul!" cried the old soldier; "How the devil you are grown!— Hand us your fist, my boy; I'm heartily glad to see you." "But tell me, Mr. Link," cried Paul, "how is Mrs. Wilkinson, and Mr. Wilkinson, and Fanny, and all the rest of the children? Where are they? Are they all well? I should be so delighted to see them!" Avast there," answered Tom Link, "when I can get in a word edge-ways, I'll tell you all about it." 66 Well, then," cried Paul, "how is Mrs. Wilkinson ?" "And have they the beasts still?—a tigress, like my favourite ?" "Hush!" cried Mr. Link, putting his hand upon 66 his mouth; no more of beasts, Paul, an thou lov'st me. We are players now." 66 "And what harm if she was?" cried Tom Link: "but she isn't, though; she only looks after the children, as usual. But Fanny is an actress; oh, such an actress! My dear fellow, you must go and see her play." "I should like to see her first when she's not playing," said Paul. "Do they ever talk about me? But it is an ungrateful question; I'm sure Mrs. Wilkinson does. She was a mother to me, and I loved her like a mother. Take me to them, Mr. Link; I'll never leave them again. They can find something for me to do, I dare say. I would go about with them to the world's end, though they are players; and if they were beggars I'd do the same." 66 66 Beggars, Paul!" exclaimed Mr. Link; why, what a foolish boy you are! Why, players are gentlemen and ladies; we are all gentlemen now. like a beggar? 66 Do I look No," answered Paul; "I thought you 'nation smart. But you don't mean that you are a player? "And if you'll go along with us I'll make a player of you." "It doesn't matter," answered Paul, "if you made a highwayman of me, I'd go with you. As to me, you see what I am by my gear. But take me to Mrs. Wilkinson; I long to see her; and as we go along you can tell me all about it." "Right, my lad," exclaimed Link; "and you can give me a Roland for an Oliver; or, in other words, if I tell you our story you can tell me yours." "And a 'nation queer one it is, I assure you, Mr. Link; for I have been shot, and gibbeted, and drowned since I saw you; that is, I mean, I was very nearly so. But come, I really can't talk of anything till I see my second mother." Mr. Link understood this feeling, and moved on as fast as his wooden leg would permit till they came to the public-house where Mr. Wilkinson and his whole family were seated round the tea-table. Paul, in his stable-clothes, rushed into the room, but seeing Mrs. Wilkinson's change of costume he felt a little checked, and going up timidly towards her, he said with a trembling voice, "Don't you know me, ma'am? "What, Paul!" cried she, starting from her chair and throwing her arms about his neck; "Paul Pevensey!" And she kissed him and cried over him as if he were still a child. When after a few minutes Paul disengaged himself from this maternal embrace, he received a hearty shake of the hand from Mr. Wilkinson himself, who, addressing his children, said to them "This is Paul, about whom you have so often heard us speak. This is in some sort your brother, since we half nursed him, and treated him like our own child. But sit down, Paul, and tell us how we lost you, and where you have been, and what has happened to you since, and how you found your mother, and what you mean to do with yourself." Paul was silent for a minute, and then answered: . If you have any work for me, sir, I'll go with you for the rest of my life. I have no mother and father but you, and I have never seen a home since I left yours." "But don't you speak to Fanny?" inquired Mrs. Wilkinson. "Which is Fanny, ma'am?" inquired Paul; "not this young lady, surely." "Yes it is," answered the mother; "but you have not forgotten each other, surely?" "Indeed I have, ma'am," answered Paul; "but it's not much to be wondered at. I've seen none but low people lately, except now and then at church, when I go there." He then held out his hand timidly to Fanny, and said, "Will you shake hands with me, miss ?" "Call me Fanny," answered she, as she held out her hand to him in the friendliest possible manner. "I remember you very well; you are bigger, but not altered a bit.” Paul soon began to feel a little at home. The younger children came round him, and kissed him, and some of them got on his knee, while Mr. Link was engaged in explaining to Mr. Wilkinson how and where they had met. “Oh, ma'am,” cried Paul, addressing Mrs. Wilkinson, “it was a sad day for me when I lost sight of you." He then told his story, and the very strange adventures in which he had been engaged interested the whole family extremely. They were not going to act that night, but had made arrangements for a barn for the morrow, and Paul was invited to come and see the play. "And then," said Mrs. Wilkinson, "you'll join us, of course. I look upon you as my own son, and it shall not be our fault if you ever part from us again. You must explain these things to the innkeeper, and tell him that we are your parents, and we claim you. I don't mean your real natural parents, for that wouldn't be true, and I should like you always to speak the truth, but your parents in affection." Paul's heart was too full to allow him to reply immediately. At length he said "I knew exactly how it would be. I wasn't no how deceived in your characters, and if you knew how often I've thought of you, and dreamt of you, and prayed for you-when I've prayed at all-you wouldn't think your affection thrown away upon me. And after all, I have no other father but Mr. Wilkin son, and no other mother but you.' "But do you think you can take to the playhouse, Paul ?" inquired Wilkinson, “for with us, you know, that must be your fate." E E "I don't know exactly what I can and what I can't do," answered Paul; "but this one thing I can say, that if you don't turn me adrift, I'll do anything that you wish me, even though, as I've told Mr. Link, it were turning highwayman." Wilkinson laughed heartily, and said "The stage isn't so bad as that, Paul, but you must turn genteel; in fact, must think yourself a gentleman, and act as if you were one." "It will be rather hard, I fancy," observed Paul, "to make a gentleman of me, but to please you I'll try even to do that. When shall I come home ?" The last word pleased both Wilkinson and his wife, and they both replied together- "You are right, Paul; your home is with us, so go and speak with your master, and come home this very night. We have always missed you; the list of our children never seemed complete, and your place has been left empty at the table. For a long while we put a chair for you, and a plate, and a knife and fork, beside Fanny's, and we always used to think you'd come in some day to sit in it; and here you are, and as welcome as ever you were. We can't say more." "No, ma'am," answered Paul, "or do more. I am happy now, as happy as a prince; and I do think I never was happy before; and if you can ma k a player or a gentleman of me, I am ready to learn anything. I'll just run down and thank Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox for what they have done for me, and say good bye to them, unless, perhaps―" and he hesitated a moment. "Unless what?" inquired Wilkinson. 66 Why, sir, unless you let me ask them to the play to-morrow night, just to see Fanny, and put them in good humour." "Do, Paul," cried Fanny, answering for her father, "it will increase my audience; I like to see a great many faces when I act." The kind-hearted innkeepers entered very readily into Paul's feelings. They had heard all about the Wilkinsons a hundred times, and rejoiced that he had found them again. Besides, they really felt pleased and flattered by being invited to the play, and easily consented that Paul should rise from a stableboy into an actor, if by any contrivance the transformation could be effected. For the present, however, their interest was centred in Fanny's performance, who, on the following evening, was to appear as "Juliet." A BRIEF SKETCH, 66 INTENDED TO ACCOMPANY MR. JAS. SCOTT'S ENGRAVING OF THE CONCEALMENT OF THE SCOTTISH REGALIA IN THE KIRK OF KINNEFF, FROM THE ORIGINAL PICTURE BY CHISHOLME, NOW IN THE COLLECTION OF MRS. MARY PARKES, 22, GOLDEN-SQUARE. Under this title a neat pamphlet has been written by James Logan, Esq. It is certainly a brief but at the same time most interesting account of an event in Scottish history which can scarcely be surpassed in its romantic character, or for the heroic devotion and endurance of the actors in the important transaction, which is, as the author justly observes, but little known to the general readers of the history of that nation. Mr. Logan informs us that the regalia of Scotland consisted of the crown, sceptre, and sword of state; which, when the parliament was not sitting, were left in the charge of the Lord High Treasurer; but when parliament met they were delivered by his lordship to the Earl Marischal, to whose keeping they were then ex officio entrusted. He then goes on to state-" That the army of the Commonwealth having advanced into Scotland, it became an object of immediate solicitude to secure the precious emblems of national independence; and as some of the royal castles |