condescend tae a meanness, or what can. . . Marget Hoo think o' me?" and the wail in Drumsheugh's voice went to the heart of MacLure.

"Dinna tak on like this, Drum; it's waesome tae hear ye, an' it's clean havers ye're speakin' the nicht. Didna Domsie get mony a note frae ye for his college laddies ?-a've heard him on'tan' it wes you 'at paid Geordie Hoo's fees, an' wha wes't brocht Sir George an' savit Annie Mitchell's life . . . ?"

"That didna cost me muckle in the end, sin' it wes your daein' an' no mine; an' as for the bit fees for the puir scholars, they were naethin' ava.

66

Na, na, Weelum, it 'ill no dae. A' ken the hert o' ye weel, and ye 'ill stan' by yir freend through fair and foul; but a'm gaein' tae clear things up aince for a'; a'll never gang through this again.

"It's no the Glen a'm thinkin' aboot the nicht; a' wud like tae hae their gude opinion, an' a'm no what they're considerin' me, but a' canna gie them the facts o' the case, an' . . . a' maun juist dee as a' hev lived.

"What cuts me tae the hert is that the twa fouk a' luve sud hae reason tae jidge me a miser; ane o' them wull never ken her mistake, but a'll pit masel richt wi' the ither. Weelum, for what div ye think a've been scrapin' for a' thae years?"

46

Weel, gin ye wull hae ma mind," said the doctor, slowly, "a' believed ye hed been crossed in luve, for ye telt me as much yersel. . . .'

"Ye're richt, Weelum; a'll tell ye mair the nicht; gang on."

"It cam tae ma mind that ye turned tae bargainin' an' savin', no for greeda' kent there wes nae greed in ye; div ye suppose a' cudna tell the differ atween ma freend an' Milton?—but for a troke tae keep yir mind aff . . . aff yir sorrow."

'Thank ye, Weelum, thank ye kindly, but it wesna even that that a've lived barer than ony plooman for the best part o' ma life; a' tell ye, beyond ma stockin' a'm no worth twa hunder pund this nicht.

"A' left the schule afore she cam, an' the first time a' ever kent Marget richt wes the day she settled wi' her mither in the cottar's hoose on Drumsheugh, an' she's hed ma hert sin' that 'oor.

"It wesna her winsome face nor her gentle ways that drew me, Weelum; it wes .. her soul, the gudeness 'at lookit oot on the warld through yon grey een, sae serious, thochtfu', kindly. Nae man cud say a rouch word or hae a ill thocht in her presence; she made ye better juist tae hear her speak an' stan' aside her at the wark.

66

"A' hardly ever spoke tae her for the three year she wes wi's, an' a' said na word o' luve. A' houpit some day tae win her, an' a' wes mair than content tae hae her near me. Thae years were bitter tae me aifterwards, but, man, a' wudna be withoot them noo; they're a' the time a' ever hed wi' Marget.

"A'm a-wearyin' ye, Weelum, wi' what can be little mair than havers tae anither man;" but at the look on the doctor's face, he added, "A'll tell ye a' then, an' . . . a'll never mention her name again. Ye're the only man ever heard me say 'Marget' like this.

Weelum, a' wes a man thae days, an' thochts cam tae me 'at gared the hert leap in ma briest, and ma blude rin like the Tochty in flood. When a' drave the scythe through the corn in hairst, and Marget lifted the gowden swathe ahint me, a' said, This is hoo a'll toil an' fecht for her a' the days o' oor life'; an' when she gied me the sheaves at the mill for the threshin', 'This is hoo she 'ill bring a' guid things tae ma hame.)

There's a stile on the road tae the hill, an' a hawthorn tree at the side o't; it wes there she met me ae sweet simmer evenin', when the corn wes turnin' yellow, an' telt me they wud be leavin' their hoose at Martinmas. Her face hed a licht on it a' hed never seen. 'A'm tae be marrie't,' she said, 'tae William Howe . .

"Puir lad, puir lad, aifter a' yir houps; did ye lat her ken ?”

66

Na, na; it wes ower late, an' wud only hae vexed her. Howe and her hed been bairns thegither, an' a've heard he wes kind tae her father when he wes sober (weakly), an' so . . . he got her hert. A' cudna hae changed her, but a' micht hae made her meeserable.

"A leaned ower that stile for twa lang oors. Mony a time a've been there sin then, by nicht and day. Hoo the Glen wud lauch, for a'm no the man they see. A' saw the sun gae doon that nicht, an' a' felt the darkness fa' on me, an' a' kent the licht hed gane oot o' ma life for ever."

64

"Ye carried yersel like a man, though," and the doctor's voice was full of pride, but ye've hed a sair battle, Drum, an' nae man tae say weel dune. "Dinna speak that wy, Weelum, for a'm no sae gude as ye're thinkin'; frae that oor tae Geordie's illness a' never spak ae word o' kindness tae Marget, an' gin hatred wud hae killed him, she wud hae lost her bridegroom.

"Gude forgie me,' and the drops stood on Drumsheugh's forehead. "When Hoo cudna pay, and he wes tae be turned oot of Whinnie Knowe, a' lauched tae masel, though there isna a kinder, simpler heart in the Glen than puir Whinnie's. There maun be some truth in thae auld stories aboot a deevil; he hed an awfu' grup o' me the end o' that year.

"But a' never hatit her; a' think a've luvit her mair every year; and when a' thocht o' her trachlin' in some bit hoosie as a plooman's wife, wha wes fit for a castle, ma hert wes melted.

"Gin she hed gien me her luve, wha never knew a' wantit it, a' wud hae spilt ma blude afore ye knew care, an' though ye sees me naethin' but a cankered, contrackit auld carle this day, a' wud hae made her happy aince, Weelum. A' wes different when a' wes young, and Drumsheugh appealed to his friend.

"Dinna misca yersel tae me, Drum ;

it's nae use," said the doctor, with a shaky voice.

..

Weel, it wesna tae be," resumed Drumsheugh after a little; "a' cudna be her man, but it seemed tae me ae day that a' micht work for Marget a' the same, an' naebody wud ken. So a' gied intae Muirtown an' got a writer—”

The doctor sprang to his feet in such excitement as was hardly known in Drumtochty.

"What a fule ye've made o' the Glen, Drumsheugh, and what a heepocrite ye've been. It wes you then that sent hame the money frae Ameriky 'at cleared Whinnie's feet and set Marget and him up bien (plentiful) like on their merrige," and then MacLure could do the rest for himself without assistance.

"It wud be you tae 'at started Whinnie again aifter the Pleuro took his cattle, for he wes aye an unlucky wratch, an' if it wesna you that deed oot in New York and savit him ten years ago, when the stupid body pit his name tae Piggie's bill. It's you 'at wes Winnie's farawa' cousin, wha hed gotten rich and sent hame help through the lawyer, an' naebody suspeckit onything.

"Drumsheugh"-and the doctor, who had been finding the room too small for him, came to a halt opposite his friend

"ye're the maist accomplished leear 'at's ever been born in Drumtochty, an' . . . the best man a' ever saw. Eh, Drum," and MacLure's voice sank," hoo little we kent ye. It's an awfu' peety Domsie didna hear o' this afore he slippit awa'; a' can see him straichtenin' himsel at the story. Jamie Soutar 'ill be michty when he gets a haud o't. . . ."

Twice Drumsheugh had tried to interrupt MacLure and failed, but now he brought his hand down upon the table.

"Wud ye daur, Weelum, tae mention ae word a' hae telt ye ootside this room? gin a' thocht ye wes the manAnd Drumsheugh's face was blazing.

46

Quiet, man, quiet! Ye ken a' wudna withoot yir wull; but juist ae man, Jamie Soutar. Ye 'ill lat me share't wi' Jamie."

"No even Jamie; an' a'm ashamed tae hae telt yersel, for it looks like boastin'; an' aifter a' it wes a bit o' comfort tae me in ma cauldrife life.

"It's been a gey lang trial, Weelum; ye canna think what it wes tae see her sittin' in the kirk ilka Sabbath wi' her man, tae follow her face in the Psalms,

tae catch her een in the Saicrament, an' tae ken that a' never wud say Marget' tae her in luve.

"For thirty year an' mair a've studied her, an' seen her broon hair that wes like gowd in the sunlight turn grey, and care score lines on her face, but every year she's comelier in ma een.

"Whinnie telt us his tribble aboot the bill in the kirkyaird, an' a' saw the marks o't in her look. There wes a tear ran doon her cheek in the prayer, an' a' . . cud hae greet wi' her, an' then ma hert loupit wi' joy, for a' thocht there 'ill be nae tear next Sabbath.

66

Whinnie got the siller, frae his cousin, ye ken, through the week, an' settled his debt on Friday. A' met him on the street, an' made him buy a silk goon for Marget: a' gied wi' him tae choose it, for he's little jidgment, Whinnie.

"A' wes in the train that day masel," broke in the doctor, "an' a' mind Hillocks daffin' wi' ye that nae wumman cud get a goon oot o' you. Sic fules an'

waur.

“A' didna mind that, no ae straw, Weelum, for Marget wes ten year younger next Sabbath, an' she wore ma goon on the Saicrament. A' kent what bocht it, an' that wes eneuch for me.

"It didna maitter what the Glen said, but ae thing gied tae ma hert, an' that wes Marget's thocht o' me . but a' daurna clear masel.

"We were stannin' thegither ae Sabbath'-Drumsheugh spoke as one giving a painful memory, on which he had often brooded-" an' gaein' ower the market, an' Hillocks says, 'A' dinna ken

the man or wumman 'at 'ill get a baubee oot o' you, Drumsheugh. Ye're the hardest lad in ten pairishes.'

66

Marget passed that meenut tae the kirk, an' . . . a' saw her look. Na, it wesna scorn, nor peety; it wes sorrow. . . . This wes a bien hoose in the auld day when she wes on the fairm, an' she wes wae tae see sic a change in me. A' hed tae borrow the money through the lawyer, ye ken, an' it wes a fecht payin' it wi' interest. Aye, but it wes a pleesure tae, a' that a'll ever hev, Weelum. . .

"Juist aince, Weelum, in her gairden, an' the day Geordie deed. Marget thankit me for the college fees and bit expenses a' hed paid. A father cudna hae been kinder tae ma laddie,' she said, an' she laid her hand on ma airm. 'Ye're a gude man, a' see it clear this day, an' . . . ma hert is . . . warm tae ye.' A' ran oot o' the gairden. micht hae broken doon. Oh! gin Geordie hed been ma ain laddie an' Marget . . ma wife."

A'

I. REJECTED Addresses. Inasmuch as the experience of the vast majority of writers begins with a series of soul-harrowing rejections, whatever success may be ultimately attained, it seems in accordance with the fitness of things that in these two papers of mine the editorial refusals should take precedence.

Editors have to suffer many hard things at the pens or tongues of contributors. There are few among the

competitors for their approval who can be brought to regard them in a dispassionate spirit of justice. The literary child which has been with such pains brought forth-be it poem, story, essay, or volume-is so dear to the parent, that any failure to accord it due appreciation is nine times out of ten taken to argue partiality, prejudice, or crass stupidity

in the errant editor.

But, as every editor knows, and will not be slow to affirm, this is far from being the true state of the case. There

are few conductors of periodicals who do not very much prefer sending acceptances rather than rejections. It is only

in obedience to the stern dictates of duty that they so frequently decline with thanks.

The very manner of their doing this may be taken as sufficient proof of the assertion. Let me cite some illustrations from my own budget. Thus, in the early days of my apprenticeship, before I could lay claim to the merest shadow of a reputation, the editor of one of the best-known American weeklies wrote me :

"We should like to have something from your pen in the, but we do not find the enclosed article available for our purpose, and therefore return it with regret."

Now here the smart of disappointment was materially mitigated by the kind words, with their cheering suggestion,

and one felt that one at least had had a fair show.

The same soothing effect was the natural sequence of the following note from the editor of a leading monthly:

"I am sorry to be unable to use your paper. There is much truth in the views advanced in it, but they would, I fear, prove offensive to many of our readers.

In this case, as in that of the article next referred to, it is easy to see what an advantage the editor has when the would-be contributor is at a distance, for certainly both replies would evoke earnest argument were they given verbally and face to face.

"Your carefully written articles ought to find interested readers in this country, but after deliberation it has seemed to us that we have too much matter on hand to justify us in accepting another series of articles."

But of course it was no use arguing over a distance of some hundreds of miles, so the decision had perforce to be. accepted as final.

Perhaps one of the most trying experiences to which the eager and persistent contributor subjects himself is that of getting the editor almost, but not altogether persuaded to accept his manuscript. The subjoined editorial communications will make clear my meaning.

Thus from the editors of a famous juvenile monthly:

"The merits of your story are fully appreciated, and the MS. is returned only because is already

more than supplied with accepted stories of adventurous or exciting character. For this reason solely we let the Ms. go back to you.”

And this from a not less well-known weekly of the same character:

"If I were not so well stocked with stories, I should be glad to keep this. As it is, I must return it, but I shall always be glad to see anything in our line that you may write."

Yet another from the same kindly pen:

"This is a good-enough-to-print article, but I do not feel justified in adding it to my present accumulation."

To the same effect, although based on a different reason, is this rejection from the feminine conductor of a young people's monthly lately defunct:

"I am forced to return this clever little story because I must publish the MS. of yours already on hand before accepting more. Could I sit down weekly, many pleasant things would be possible.” to my desk some fine morning, and find ——, a

A miss is as good as a mile, they say, yet if there be any balm in Gilead for the disappointed contributor, surely such a kindly note as the foregoing must apply it.

Not all editors, however, administer their negatives with such consideration. Having done what you thought to be your best on a manuscript, it seems like adding insult to injury when all the response you elicit is a scrap of paper, evidently a torn-off letter-head, with these words hastily scrawled upon it:

"Not available-only stories in request;"

or a mere lead-pencil note to this effect : 'Declined with thanks-too long, and not of sufficient interest ;"

and oh how the following made one long for five minutes in the editorial sanctum :

"We are obliged to return your MS., as the incident related seems to us to be improbable—” the fact being that it was an actual occurrence in the life of a statesman, with whom the writer was well acquainted.

Let me bring this article to a close with two experiences, which, perhaps, may prove somewhat out of the ordinary

run.

The first was that of having a book declined by a prominent publishing house because it was too interesting! The statement may seem incredible on the face of it, but here are the ipsissima verba of the firm :

The second experience well illustrates the value of pertinacity, although perhaps it can hardly be taken to furnish a safe precedent.

An article upon which the writer had expended an infinitude of pains, and which embodied his most profound convictions upon a subject of vital social interest, was first submitted to the monthly review which seemed the most fitting vehicle for its presentation to the public.

It was returned with many regrets, because" so much matter previously engaged had come to hand that we dare not accept even one more article at present."

Just six months later, having in the mean time been pruned and condensed, it was again submitted, only to be sent back with the same reason given. Another six months went by, at the

expiration of which it was announced that a periodical on somewhat similar lines to this twice-tried review was about to be established. The article in question was thereupon despatched thither, in hopes that there could not already be such an accumulation of ordered or ac

cepted material as to preclude a place being found for it.

Alas! the answer ran as follows:

"The excellence of this article is appreciated, but circumstances prevent its acceptance.”

And what gave the matter a humorous tinge was the unsuspected fact that the editor of the new periodical was the same man who had twice before pronounced adversely upon the unfortunate article.

One more half year passed, and then, impelled by a yet unquenched faith in his right to a hearing, the writer sent the manuscript back to the new periodical-and lo and behold! his persistency met the reward it surely deserved.

The article was accepted, and paid for at a rate of compensation higher than he had ever previously received, and this, too, by the very editor who had thrice previously failed to find room for the contribution ! J. Macdonald Oxley.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "MY STUDY FIRE," VII. FROM THE BOOK TO THE READER.

The study which has found its material and its reward in Dante's Divine Comedy or in Goethe's Faust is the best possible evidence of the inexhaustible interest in the masterpieces of these two great poets. Libraries of considerable dimensions have been written in the way of commentaries upon, and expositions of, these notable works. Many of these books are, it is true, deficient in insight and possessed of very little power of interpretation or illumination; they are the products of a barren, dry-as-dust industry, which has expended itself upon external characteristics and incidental references. Nevertheless, the very volume and mass of these secondary books

witness to the fertility of the first-hand books with which they deal, and show beyond dispute that men have an insatiable desire to get at their interior meanings. If these great powers had been mere illustrations of individual skill and gift this interest would have long ago exhausted itself. That singular and unsurpassed qualities of construction, style, and diction are present in Faust and the Divine Comedy need not be emphasised, since they both belong to the very highest class of literary production; but there is something deeper and more vital in them; there is a philosophy or interpretation of life. of these poems is a revelation of what man is and of what his life means; and it is this deep truth, or set of truths, at