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wetted by water-by quicksilver. Which are not wetted by water? by quick silver? How are capillary phenomena effected by this distinction ? Give examples of capillary attraction in nature,
THE SAXON AND THE GAEL.
And to the Lowland warrior said:
Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust,
Can nought but blood our feud atone?
'Who spills the foremost foeman's life,
"Then, by my word," the Saxon said,
"The riddle is already read.
Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye—
For I have sworn this braid to stain
In the best blood that warms thy vein.
Now, truce, farewell! and, ruth, begone!
Yet think not that by thee alone,
Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown;
Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn,
Start at my whistle clansmen stern,
Of this small horn one feeble blast
Would fearful odds against thee cast.
But fear not—doubt not—which thou wilt—
We try this quarrel hilt to hilt."
Then each at once his falchion drew,
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand
Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand,
And, backward borne upon the lea,
Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee. "Now, yield thee, or "—the Saxon said, "Thy heart's blood, Chieftain, dyes my blade !"— "Thy threats thy mercy, I defy!
Let recreant yield, who fears to die."
—Like adder darting from his coil,
Like wolf that dashes through the toil,
Like mountain-cat who guards her young,
Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung;
Received, but recked not of a wound,
And locked his arms his foeman round.
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!
No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,
Through bars of brass and triple steel!
They tug, they strain! down, down they go,
The Gael above, Fitz-James below.
The Chieftain's gripe his throat compressed;
His knee was planted in his breast;
His clotted locks he backward threw,
Across his brow his hand he drew,
From blood and mist to clear his sight,
Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright I
—But hate and fury ill supplied
The stream of life's exhausted tide;
And all too late the advantage came,
To turn the odds of deadly game;
For, while the dagger gleamed on high,
Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye.
Down came the blow! but in the heath
The erring blade found bloodless sheath.
Tbe struggling foe may now unclasp
The fainting Chiefs relaxing grasp;
Unwounded from the dreadful close,
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose. Scott.
s THE Eldee's DEATH-BED.
tJoas Wilson, a distinguished poet, critic, and prose-writer, the well-known Christopher North of "Blackwood's Magazine," was born In Paisley in 1788, and died in 1854. He was long Professor of moral philosophy in the University of Edinburgh. He has been ranked among the " Lake Poets." His poetical writings are characterised by great beauty of description, exquisite tenderness and elegance of sentiment, and varied richness of expression. But it is chiefly in periodical literature that he earned his well-merited fame. His contributions to " Blackwood's Magazine" are marked by an extraordinary combination of the most opposite quality—pathos the purest, the deepest, and the most tender; wild, wanton, and withering sarcasm; sentiment, refined and exalted to the pitch of devotion; and humour of the freest, broadest, and most exuberant vein.]
For six years' Sabbaths I had seen the elder in his accustomed place beneath the pulpit, and, with a sort of solemn fear, had looked on his steadfast countenance during sermon, psalm, and prayer. On returning to the scenes of my infancy, I met the pastor going to call upon the elder; and with the privilege which nature gives us to behold, even in their last extremity, the loving and beloved, I turned to accompany him to the house of sorrow, of resignation, and of death.
And now, for the first time, I observed, walking close to the feet of his horse, a little boy about ten years of age, who kept frequently looking up in the pastor's face, with his blue eyes bathed in tears. A changeful expression of grief, hope, and despair, made almost pale, cheeks which, otherwise, were blooming in health and beauty; and I recognised in the small features and smooth forehead of childhood, a resemblance to the aged man who, we understood, was now lying on his death-bed. "They had to send his grandson for me through the snow, mere child as ho is," said the minister, looking tenderly on the boy; "but love makes the young heart bold, and there is One who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb."
As we slowly approached the cottage, through a deep snow-drift, which the distress within had prevented the inmates from removing, we saw, peeping out from the door, brothers and sisters of our little guide, who quickly disappeared; and then their mother showed herself in their stead,