son, who, inheriting his father's unworthiness, returned him only ingratitude and cruelty. In his illustrious uncle's last days this young man was desired to procure a physician. Perhaps it was not convenient or agreeable to him to obey the request immediately; at any rate, the only notice he took of it was to delegate the task to a marker at some billiard-rooms where he was playing. This marker happening to fall ill, was taken to the hospital, and begged the Professor who prescribed for him to visit Beethoven. Professor Wawruch, who entertained a high regard for the distinguished artist, hurried to him, and found him still without medical attendance.

Anything more revolting than the heartless conduct of Beethoven's nephew it is difficult to conceive; while his unhappy uncle was fast approaching dissolution he was yet practising the extravagance which had so much grieved his guardian, and, as in Austria there is no such thing as tacit adoption, the laws of the country obliged our composer to minister to the perpetually increasing expenditure of the youth, or to see that youth-his own nephew-branded and disgraced. This last alternative was impossible to a man of Beethoven's temper, and

he still struggled to reclaim the hardened young man, and to supply his demands for money.

It was on the 2nd of December, 1826, that Beethoven's last illness commenced. After great sufferings, from inflammation of the lungs and dropsy, he died on the 26th of March, 1827, in the fifty-sixth year of his age.

Of the greatness and originality of his compositions this is not the place to speak, did even the technical knowledge of the writer permit their discussion; thus much may, however, be said, that none who are capable of true feeling can hear unmoved his sublime music. It speaks to the heart with an energy that far outdoes the effect of the pleasing cantilena, and the theatrical passion of the Italian school; it bears the impress of true genius, and appeals to the sublimest and tenderest instincts of our being. Who is not glad to know that our Philharmonic Society had the honour of tendering assistance to Beethoven in his last illness?

Those who desire more exact particulars are referred to the excellent "Life of Beethoven," by Schindler, as translated by Moscheles, with valuable appendices including his correspon dence, anecdotes, &c.

CHAP. VIII.

HIGHLAND MINSTRELSY," &c., &c.

and pale as my apron. But indeed I have had other sad thoughts. Look here, another letter; and you only heard yesterday." So saying, she held up a letter with Carola's writing on it.

"Yesterday!" repeated I; only yesterdayit seemed years back-before I had seen Mr. B. -before I had learned my doom-before I had thought of destruction-before I had met Mr. Jacob Furness. Yesterday!"

I took the letter, and tore it open; it made me gasp. The indistinct and hurried scrawl was suddenly broken off, and finished with a sad sympathy by Menie Anson

"Come to me," it said, "my own friend, my darling Laura; never, never, did I so need your care and help. They are truly kind here, but I must—yes, dearest, I must, have you to be with me. My father-oh! Laura, they tell me he is

39

Here a large tear had fallen, and blotted out the line. Menie had continued it. "Yes, Laura, I fear-we all fear-that poor Mr. Morton is dying. He also wishes to see you; he says he has much to say before he goes. Come immediately, if you can; Carola is in a pitiable state, not murmuring, but sunken to the earth by this terrible, and to her unlooked-for grief. Yours, in haste and love, M. Anson.”

What was I to do? To travel four hundred miles with the few pounds I could call my own? Yes, it must be done. I could sell my watch,

my only valuable, if my means failed ere I had reached the end. I must go-I could not desert Carola in her extremity. As for going alone, I cared not. I had borne too many vicissitudes in solitude to care much for a lonely journey. "Is not the smack the quickest and easiest route?" I asked aloud.

"To Inverness! then Mr. Morton is dying," exclaimed Mrs. Crosby.

I did not answer-my heart was full. "You are young, Miss Studlegh, too young still to travel so far alone-too young to protect that helpless creature, soon to be an orphan. She needs something like a mother, somebody who has been a mother, to comfort her now. No; you can comfort her, but she requires much which you cannot do. Let me accompany you, for mercy's sake, do! I have plenty of ready money; I cannot travel by sea, but I can pay the expense of posting as far as Edinburgh, and then we can go on by stage-coach. You will find me of use, indeed you will!"

Her eyes were swimming in tears. I was much affected by her love for my poor Carola. I was glad of her escort. She was, as I have said before, no common person. I did not fear the intrusion of vulgar sympathy into the sacred silence of grief. I knew her delicacy would respect the feelings of my suffering friend. I therefore accepted her offer with many thanks, Her assistance in the pecuniary part of the matter did not strike me at the time as so advantageous as it really was. Like many who are habitually thrifty, Mrs. Crosby could be liberal on occasion. She arranged everything most comfortably for our journey, and in three hours after I had reached home we were rattling over the London streets towards the Great Northroad.

It was a clear, cold day; the fields all in stubble; the woods like Joseph's coat of many colours. The blue smoke went straight up into the air, the atmosphere was so light and buoyant. I have always had a strong love of travel: the rapid motion and changing scene are sure to exhilarate. I like the feeling of transition, the momentary freedom from home and home associations; no longer bound to one spot, and its inseparable toils I feel, for the hour, as a bird winging its flight through eternity; I see no end to my progress; I shut my eyes to the fleshly necessities of bed and board; my thoughts spin forward like the whirling wheels.

After a few miles through lovely Berkshire, its delicious streams, its picturesque mills, its gabled villages, and lawny manor-houses, I began to hope that Carola had, with the anxiety of love, exaggerated her father's danger. The reader knows me for an impressionable creature, easily depressed, easily raised again. I had been at the lowest depths of despondency, I now felt languidly hopeful. I put away from me fear and forethought; I tried to become all ear and eye, to live in the country sights and sounds which thickened the air around me.

We drove on for many miles in perfect silence, Mrs. Crosby looking from one window, I from

the other; she was evidently far away in meditation: I could see it by the dreamy fixed eye, the trembling mournful fips. She was thinking of the dead.

We stopped late in the evening to sup, then took fresh horses and posted through the night. Neither of us slept. As the scenery faded in the deepening twilight, faded my hopes and cheering self-promises. I remembered the preceding evening and its degrading experiences; I reflected more at leisure on all I had thought and done, or tried to do; I humbled myself in soul before offended God. How precious now seemed the life I bad wilfully despised; I, who had deemed myself an outcast, was I not Carola's only support? And dared I undertake to guard her, who had so ill used the trusteeship of my own spirit! How unworthy was I of her confidence! how unable to guide another when my own steps had gone so fearfully astray! In the darkness of that rumbling chaise I shed bitter tears of shame and penitence; I made good resolutions of amendment, of a more Christian life in future; I prayed for new faith, that might not fail me in the hour of need, and for strength to resist temptation. I committed my insufficiency to the all-sufficient Saviour, my sorrows to the All Comforter; and at once consoled and exhausted by the energy of my emotions, I at last fell asleep just as morning dawned on us in Derbyshire. My kind companion did not waken me for breakfast; she bought some sandwiches and wine when the horses were changed, and spread them before me at noon, when I at length shook off my drowsy indolence. Perhaps she partook of my sanguine hopes, which came back with sunshine, that we should find Mr. Morton better; at any rate she refrained from damping me, by expressing fears, and so we conversed cheerfully enough as we bowled along the splendid roads, for which, till railways reared their fuming heads, England was so justly renowned.

I need not dwell further on our journey, on our wild windings over those dreary Cheviots, the desolate boundary land of our living bordermen. People must have robbed them for lack of employment-a raid was your only excitement. It is easy for ladies and gentlemen, with their three balls of an evening, their Sunday's Hyde-park drive, and Saturday's opera, to blame poor people whose lot was cast on those gloomy moorlands, where company could be gathered on no pretext but that of plunder, where the ground refused sustenance, and the only market was your neighbour's farm-yard; your sole chance of an illumination the firing of a niggardly farmer's thatch. Had we lived in those days on those hills, a helter-skelter ride_by moonlight would have been the corresponding amusement to a wax-lighted polka in a drawing room now-a-days, I dare say match-making mammas, with their ugly daughters in those grim fortified peels, or towers, looked not unforgivingly on the audacious youths who carried off the maidens on the crupper of their saddle. It saved a deal of manoeuvring; and in default of border wooing, what shifts the excellent

mothers were sometimes put to for the establishment of a plain daughter we all know by the story of "Muckle-mouthed Meg," and the good-looking knight who for two days held out against the parental solicitation, only yielding his hand to his unprepossessing bride when the hangman's knot was noosed around his neck. There was a good deal of zest in a courtship then!

But while I am digressing the chaise has clattered along the banks of Tweed, which at that time were beginning to bristle with Walter Scott's young plantations, and lo we are in Edinburgh!

We paused not a night, and fortunately found vacant seats in the Inverness coach. Two days after we were in that city. It is impossible to describe our anxiety the last few miles; the four horses seemed slower than tortoises: our fellowpassengers, a Presbyterian clergyman and his wife, were kind and civil, but, although natives of Inverness, had been some months absent, and could give us no information beyond the address of Mr. Anson's house. It was a little way out of the town on the Beauly Frith. We took a hackney coach from the office, and drove thither as fast as possible. The noise of our approaching wheels brought Mr. Anson to the rose-trellised gate of the little garden. One word I said as I sprang out, "Is it over?"

"No," he answered, pressing my hand affectionately; "you are in time, only just in time." Mrs. Crosby burst into tears. I was the moment before on the point of the same indulgence, but the sight of her agitation calmed mine. I choked back my sobs, and said calmly, "I am ready to see Carola."

Mr. Anson led me into the sitting-room. In a few moments my dear girl rushed into my arms. She was very pale and thin, and her large eyes were surrounded with a dark circle. I saw at the first glance that she had outwatched her strength. She wept abundantly, and it relieved her; she had not shed a tear for many days. This violent emotion so exhausted her that Mrs. Anson, who had joined us, easily prevailed on her to take a composing draught, and to go to bed for an hour. "I can leave my father now," she said, sadly smiling. "You are here, my darling Laura."

"Thank God," said Menie, "she is saved. I was in great alarm for her: she was half distracted, and really but for this blessed loosening of the waters I think her mind would have gone. She does not know me enough to trust her father entirely to my care, and she was so frightened lest you should arrive too late, for Mr. Morton has asked so often for you, and wished to speak to you before he died. I think Carola would have broken her heart if you had not come in time." "When can I see him?" I asked with quivering lips and sinking heart.

"Not now; he had an opiate a little ago. My husband has gone in to sit beside him. Meantime I entreat you to take some food and lie down; you look very tired, and I have already got your friend to refresh herself."

"You know who she is?" I said inquiringly. "Yes; she told me all about it: she seems very fond of Carola; no wonder, she is a most winning creature, and was growing so handsome in this fine air; you cannot think what a colour she had till this grief came to make her ill and pale, poor young thing. And now drink this wine; or would you prefer coffee?"

"Yes, strong coffee if you please; it is far more invigorating than wine."

Menie hastened out to procure it, and left me in the pretty little room: how comfortable and refined it was!-a cabinet piano, a portfolio stand, a tastefully carved book-case quite full of volumes--all bespake refinement of mind. Flowers were in the window-sill and over the mantel-piece; a neatly-framed mirror gave apparent largeness to the apartment, and all the furniture was snowy white, with green edging to relieve the eye. On the wall hung some of Menie's own sketches, coloured landscapes from nature, and a spirited crayon drawing by Mr. Anson, the heads of his two children, full of life, individuality, and intelligence. I never saw a more charming little sitting-room. Its mistress well suited it. Menie, who as a girl had been characterized by a maidenly serenity and pure innocence, as a woman possessed a calm dignity and gentle suavity which won all hearts. She moved about like a sweet household fairy, lightly but not trippingly. Her appearance had certainly improved by maturity; the slender slip of girlhood had expanded into the rich beauty of a motherly form her clear eye and unruffled forehead spoke of contentment; her children, borne in health, had thriven like hardy wild flowers: they grew up as spontaneously as the heather on the hill behind their house; no doctor frightened their little imaginations with images of pain and horror; no lancet drew blood from their infant gums; senna tea and rhubarb entered not into their thoughts. They were tall, well formed children, and did credit to their porridge and fresh milk, plainly dressed but clean, and with shining hair and fair skins they had the beauty of intellects awake to external nature, and hearts alive to every warm and generous impulse. They followed their mother when she brought my coffee, the little girl proudly bearing the sugar bason; the elder child, a boy, happy in custody of my cup. "What are their names?" I asked.

just been removed from the bed, for his oppressed breathing prevented him from long lying recumbent. Pillows and cushions of all sizes were piled around and behind him, just as vainly as all the loving cares were heaped about the spirit to make life easy once more.

Mr. Morton's face was pale and red by turns; his attenuated limbs shifted restlessly, but he uttered no complaint; he only looked longingly out at the open window, over the blue fields to the far mountains mistily mingling with the skies; and his lips moved as if uttering a prayer, which I for my part interpreted in my thoughts-"O that I had wings like a bird, that I might flee away and be at rest!"

But there is no winged flight to heaven. We must creep through the narrow aperture of the tomb-so narrow, that we must lay aside our outer garment of flesh ere we can pass.

I could see that clayey mantle falling visibly from my friend's soul.

He moved his head towards the door as I entered; he stretched out his wan hand-I retained it in mine; how much love I wished to pour on him, but how much I feared to excite him! I spoke low, not in that irritating whisper which some affect in a sick room, and which is so nerve-trying; but in clear, calm tones. He smiled in reply a smile all heavenly.

"You are come, Laura," he said, "for my child, soon to be yours alone. How blessed am I in feeling that I have left behind me other arms to enclose her when mine lie rigid in my coffin-it is as if her mother rose out of her grave as I sink into mine."

He stopped, breathless and faint. I could not bear to look longer on his sufferings; my eye wandered round the room, and rested on a table covered with chymical instruments, a glass mask, retorts and alembics of various sizes, and surgical apparatus. His eye followed mine.

"Yes," he said, reviving a little," there lies the result of many years' labour, many years' thought. I have succeeded, Laura, beside the river of death. Had I looked for honours or fame, I should now die disappointed; but I worked for the good of my fellows, and that passes not with me. You cannot think, Laura, how soothing it is to me, as I struggle here with pain, to feel that I have achieved what will lessen the pains of thousands more. Do not let my discovery perish unfruitful—I leave it to your care, Laura: you are more energetic than my poor Carola; and if no use were to be made of my life's labour, I think my body would not rest quietly in the earth. Besides, it may do her some good-she is your child, Laura, I give you a mother's authority over her; use it in love, be always the friend you have been. Oh! my son had lived-my pretty Arthur: he is in his watery grave-flow, waters, flow"--and his mind began to wander.

if

I called in assistance, for I had never before seen delirium. This continued for inany hours, the patient calling always on his dear wife and

son. Mr. Anson looked very sad, for he saw better than any of us how fast the hands were running down.

Carola sat beside her father's pillow, tearless, calm, and miserable; one hand clasped tightly on the other, and her lips set together with nervous force. She said nothing-what could she have said? After some time a change came over the sufferer's countenance: the flush faded, the restless eye ceased rolling, the head lay still: he began in a low, deep tone, to chaunt the Psalm De Profundis in Latin. Carola shud

dered; "he is thinking of my mother's funeral,” whispered she to me.

Truly after a few verses of this mournfully impressive dirge, the sick man paused, murmured Maria, cara Maria!" and then with a deep sigh opened his eyes, and looked at us all with perfect composure.

The medical man, who watched for this opportunity, offered him a strengthening and soporific mixture; he drank it meekly, pressed his child's hand, smiled at her with ineffable love, and fell into a quiet sleep.

Carola burst into tears of joy-" he is saved, he will recover," she murmured. The doctor looked compassionately at her.

"My dear bairn," said he, " your father will truly recover, but no' here-in the land where's nae sickness nor pain."

Carola, suddenly cast down from her sudden momentary hope, wept fresh tears, and these all of bitterness.

For many hours Mr. Morton slept-so calm, so fixed, that many times we leant over the bed to assure ourselves by the low breathing that life yet lingered there. Softly it lingered, scarcely stirring the pale lips, scarcely moving the bed-clothes. The expression of pain had disappeared-a gentle smile brooded over the stilly face: it seemed as if the spirit, in slumber, communed with its God. To look on him lying there, infused into our hearts an unspeakable tranquillity and resignation. He was gliding unshadowed through the vale of shades-the Light from above fell upon him.

All this time Carola sate with his hand clasped in hers: she did not stir, lest she should perchance awake him. In spite of the doctor's words, a hope was struggling in her soul; and in proportion as her grief grew lighter, her fair eyelids drooped heavier and heavier with fatigue; she sat bending down with the weight of over excitement and over exertion-so pale, so fragile, so willowy, I felt afraid she would not long survive her beloved father.

Mr. Anson, withdrawn to a corner of the darkened room, was furtively sketching the group of father and child. Do not think him heartless-he did it, foreseeing how dear to the orphan would be this sole relic of those beloved lineaments, while her own presence in the drawing would awaken the consoling thought that she had been faithful unto death.

At last Mr. Morton stirred, sighed, as he had sighed before falling asleep, and opening his eyes, fixed them intently on his child, and said,