It is hard to run counter to long-cherished and in the main amiable feelings. It is hard to find fault with persons and institutions whose motives in encouraging Gaelic have been alike pious and benevolent. But circumstances oblige us to be candid in a matter so momentous to public welfare. The Gaelic language may be as copious and energetic as the Greek; it may be not less suitable for poetry than the Italian; it has strong archæological claims as a relic of the tongue which in its various forms was at one time spoken all over the British Islands, if not over all Europe; but it has survived its usefulness, and is out of place as a vernacular. In short, looking to the wants of modern society, and seeing the mischief it produces, we are—however hateful the term—warranted in characterising Gaelic as a NUISANCE, which every one should aid in removing with all reasonable speed.
W. C.
[FROM DAWN TO SUNSET.]
By 'Alaster Græme.'
IN THREE PARTS.—PART II.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH.
No one but Mistress Margaret and Marjory knew that Deborah and Kingston Fleming were betrothed. Meantime Deborah, with her love-secret folded like a flower within her heart, devoted herself to her father, and Kingston remained with them. But Deborah's presence was required at Lincoln; the tenantry were anxious to welcome the new mistress; and like a dutiful daughter, fondly hoping that the change would restore her father, she determined, by Kingston's advice, to go there at once, and to leave Enderby to undergo thorough repair. So they left the dear old place. 'What will happen,' thought Deborah Fleming, 'ere I see Enderby again?' Mistress Margaret would not leave Enderby, for certain private and sufficient reasons of her own; so she pleaded to be left behind. She was in daily expectation of receiving a secret summons to follow her husband, and her heart clung to her old father and the old place.
They arrived at Lincoln Castle in the late summer gloaming. Groups of solemn cedars were just visible, and the little melancholy bats were flitting round like spirits; the grand old ivied keep loomed darkly before them; and beyond, under a glimmering archway, were lights and figures. Deborah shuddered; she knew not whether to weep or pray, as she laid her head on her father's shoulder, and thought of herself entering in triumph as Adam Sinclair's bride. She felt a traitor, taking Kingston there, her lover, her betrothed, even though he was going away that night; and the grim presence of Adam Sinclair pervaded all the place. The same in the gorgeous rooms, gloomy though full of brilliant lights. On one side walked her tall kinsman-lover, and on the other stalked the spectre of Adam Sinclair. Deborah shivered, and clung to Kingston's arm. She went out with him under the stars to bid him good-bye. Two tall cedars met overhead, and the night-wind just sighed amongst their branches; the night-flowers were exhaling their fragrant odours.
'Deb,' whispered Kingston, 'I have half a mind to leave thee, love! Men of rank and position would flock to woo my beautiful one. Thou'rt very young. Wait; and let me come and know thy mind hereafter. Wait, Deb. I speak no jest. Wert thou poor, I would make thee wed me now; but love—as thou art—I cannot. Wait, Deb; and I will exact no promise from thee.'