whisky, and to dispatch a bare-legged callant to her friend in the Luckenbooths.

The stimulant might not have been loyally dutiful to King George, but it did good service to his loyal subject. His faintness passed away, and the soldier rallied sufficiently to partake the first substantial meal he had had for days.

After a sound sleep on Margery's comfortable pallet, evening found him another man. Wan and emaciated he was certainly, but the dust was gone from shoes and garments, a needle had drawn the rags into place, his face was washed, his wounds were dressed and re-bandaged; happiness lit his blue eyes, which followed his mother's every movement with a restful satisfaction not to be described.

See Susan stroking his wasted hand as she sits on a low stool by his knee, endeavouring to trace in the worn features of her recovered treasure the fine boy she remembered.

"Ah, Willie, dearie, want and wounds are sair disfigurers. I see little of the golden-haired laddie I left in his blood on the fatal field of Corunna !"

"I have brought back my heart, dear mother, and my hands, to work for you, when I grow strong again. But consider what I have endured

since then."

And what had that been? He had roused from a temporary stupor to find himself covered by what he deemed the mangled corpse of his mother; had dragged himself away to a place of safety, a party of the enemy crossing the field had carried him off with them; and for two years he had endured the miseries of a French prison. Then he was exchanged. Could learn no tidings of his family save "death, death." Believing himself alone, he re-entered the army, was sent with his regiment to Canada, was tomahawked by an Indian at Fort Erie, and only escaped scalping through a timely musket-shot which brought down his savage adversary. His wounds cured, he was draughted from the intense cold of Canada to the intense heat of the West Indies. Had an attack of yellow fever. Wounded and diseased was at length permitted to exchange into a regiment returning home. Shortly after the regi ment was disbanded, and without pension or remuneration he was cast adrift, a crippled beggar, one of England's incongruities-its glory and its shame.

This is but a condensed outline of the wanderer's story, told less connectedly, and with details which made his mother shrink and shudder. The moon was rising as it drew to a close, and silent thanksgivings were rising from Susan's heart as she caressed the straggling curls the scalp

ing knife had spared, when a quick light step was heard on the threshold, and the callant she had sent to their kinsman rushed in crying out, "Braw news, Mrs. Cameron ! braw news!"

Close at his heels came Dugald Cameron puffing and blowing, out of breath, but waving a paper in one hand, his bonnet in the other.

Speech was impossible, he thrust the paper into Susan's hand, tossed his bonnet across the kitchen, grasped Willie by both hands before he could utter a word of congratulation, altogether in a state of excitement very foreign to douce Dugald Cameron.

It was a document from the War Office. Unknown to Susan, her staunch friend Dugald had for years worried the powers that be (as he said "like a collie-dog at the heels o' a flock o' sheep") until he forced recognition of her claims. That paper confirmed the right of Sergeant Cameron's brave widow to a liberal pension.

Thus was her joy crowned!

Tears of gratitude fell from Susan's eyes that night as she opened her kist, and drawing thence with much solemnity Sergeant Cameron's well-kept Bible, laid it reverently on the table before their son.

"Willie, my boy, let us both return thanks for doubled mercies. For me, I thank God heartily that my long lost boy is given back to be the comfort of my old age, a token that my 'dour wierd' is past." Their hands met and clasped over the holy book.

"My own Willie ! "

"My dear mother!"

That clasp was for life. There was no more parting until the greyhaired woman laid her dying head on the breast of her son in after years.

THE END.

Stabella Banks

EVERYDAY CRITICISM.

HAT nice discrimination and fine perception which we will call "taste," is generally held to be an inborn faculty forming part of the natural endowments of particular natures, as clearly as the power of song is inherent in a poet, or the harmony of sound in a musician. Education, or association with artistic surroundings, will not, it is said, necessarily give to a man this power of distinguishing between the good and the bad in matters of art, but it will develop the germ lying hidden in his nature, and bring it to a state of perfection. Without wholly conceding that this view of the question is correct, it may be allowed that in many instances the power of artistic discernment is found to be instinctive, and capable of existing in a rude form without having been fostered and directed by the refining influence of knowledge. The untutored man, who will pause before a fine picture and find something in it to admire, and who will turn away from a worthless one with indifference, although incapable of defining the reasons for his admiration or indifference, is a notable illustration of this. It is, however, making a rash assertion to say that the culture and refinement consequent upon the acquisition of knowledge will not in any "Use is second nature" is a true although case generate a correct taste. trite observation, and a man will often acquire by the force of surroundings and a constant intermingling with artistic ideas, a perception, which if not intuitive, is correct. Were it not so, the number of those capable of appreciating good work in art would be very limited, as natural gifts are bestowed only upon the fortunate few, the rest of us having to acquire by dint of application and hard work that which is not born with us.

Criticism, with which we are at present concerned, may be defined as the definition and expression of the judgment which our taste leads us to form; it is the natural outcome of taste; we look upon a picture and criticise it according to the respective standards of merit in such matters which our taste has ordered. And yet how often do we find in everyday life, amongst persons whom we would believe capable of better things, a string of generalities and conventional nothings, which are equally applicable to any conceivable subject, supplying the place of an expression of opinion upon a work of art. What, for instance, are we to think of the critical capacity of the young lady whose opinion of everything within her ken, from a skating rink to a new opera, is contained in

"awfully jolly, you know," or "dreadfully slow, you know," as the case may be; or the young gentleman who expresses himself in an equally comprehensive manner on the same subjects, by "not bad, by Jove!" or "a doosid bore"-of course, " by Jove" also? And yet they have both received what is generally termed a liberal education, which, however, in their case would seem to mean a good deal of money expended without much beneficial result to themselves.

Nor is the general tone of criticism in many private circles far above this standard; is it a new book, a new play, or a new picture under discussion, it is "very charming," "very amusing," "very clever," "extremely dull,""not at all good," and so on ad nauseam, and if any one ventures to offer a more extended opinion, he is generally looked upon as an interesting curiosity which is not often to be met with. It is only charitable to suppose that most of these persons have received distinct impressions from the particular works in question, which are hardly likely to be expressed by such conventionalities as those quoted, and yet they are content to listen to, and to repeat them, as fully expressing their opinions. It is not to be denied that the system has its advantages, and is calculated to save a great deal of trouble, as it does not necessitate any previous knowledge of the subject, and the convenience of having passable opinions on things we have never seen, or perhaps heard of before, is no slight matter. This is especially the case of the clever man, the dinerout, who is supposed to know everything and everybody, and to be able to enlarge upon any possible topic that may be started. He sustains his reputation by a careful study of his favourite review, from whence he extracts smart ready-made opinions and witticisms, which he delivers as original, with a sang froid perfectly confounding; and a few less gifted. persons are thus edified by the spectacle of a man passing judgment with the utmost assurance upon books he has never read, and pictures he has

never seen.

Again, amongst a large section of the musical public, the habit of applying particular adjectives to particular composers is carried to such an extent, that I am often tempted to believe that there must exist some such compendium as a "Book of Phrases for Musical Criticism," or a Dictionary of Musical Composers," giving as the definition of each composer's name, two or three words, from which the reader has only to make a selection, to be furnished with a set of polite opinions on the men and their works. The result is obvious. If Beethoven is mentioned, a chorus of "terrible, grand, sublime," is the result; the name of Mendelssohn elicits "divine, pathetic," while poor Weber is set down as "fairylike and airy;" or ask a young lady her opinion of Schumann, and she is prepared

with "so very weird, fantastic," &c., in a moment, although upon careful inquiry you find that her knowledge of his music is, to use a mild term, unquestionably limited. Richard Wagner having lately, by the united efforts of fashion and bombast, attained some notoriety, a new term has had to be coined for the use of these adjective-loving musicians, and although opinions differ, "ethereal" is generally considered to be the correct word to apply to him.

We live in an artistic age, when creative talent is set on high and applauded, and art is raised from the depths of depression and neglect to occupy a pedestal of honour in the world. This is undoubtedly as it should be, and although we have made great advancements upon the old order of things, there is still much to be done before art in England attains that position which it should occupy in the mind of a great nation. We foster it, and liberally expend our wealth for its maintenance and preservation; art schools are founded, and considerable encouragement is offered to rising talent, of which there is no lack; but the artistic public is in a minority, and amongst the general public little care is given to the cultivation of that one requisite for the appreciation of our idol-taste. It has become the fashion to consider art "awfully jolly, you know," and all who aspire to be in the fashion are treading on their neighbours' heels in their hurry to push forward and display their regard for the new plaything of their mistress. It may be considerably "boring," but it is a duty which all fashionable people have to perform, and they go through it with heroic fortitude. Art is used as an accessory for the display of wealth, and patronized by them solely because it is the correct thing for all persons with any pretence to the title of fashionable to do. Our worthy friend Jones, for instance, who has made a fortune in the grocery line, and has become a man of mark, suddenly acquires artistic tastes, when he finds it is fashionable to have artistic tastes, and accordingly commences to display them by ordering so many thousand pounds worth of pictures, just as he would order a houseful of furniture, although in the old days he has always expressed a contempt for "them artist fellows, the idjuts," and their productions, and has often been heard to declare that a glaring representation of an individual engaged in swallowing impossible quantities of a superior kind of pickles which adorned his shop, was as fine a picture as he would ever care to see. His instructions to his picture dealer are not very difficult to carry out, he has no preference in the matter of artists, but good-naturedly thinks that he might give them all a turn, his idea of a good picture being regulated by its size-the larger the better, none of your little daubs that would fit into his tailcoat pocket for him." Jones gets plenty of canvas for his money, and is very well