NEW-YORK, JULY, 1841. EFFIE DEANS. OUR engraving for this month is the portrait of one of Scott's heroines, from one of his most popular novels, the Heart of Mid Lothian. Few readers but will recollect the circumstances arising from an error in her life, on which Scott has constructed his novel, as well as her sister, the virtuous Jeanie Deans, one of the most beautiful sketches of high principle and steady affection which was ever delineated by any author. In the introduction to this work, added a few years previous to his death, we find the following communication. As it is perhaps unknown to many of our readers, we believe it will be received by them as most acceptable, and show how little the great novelist required for the formation of one of his imperishable writings. "The true name of the sisters was Walker. The eldest of the two having been left an orphan, with the charge of a sister considerably younger than herself, and who was educated and maintained by her exertions. Attached to her by so many ties, therefore, it will not be easy to conceive her feelings, when she found that this only sister must be tried by the laws of her country for child murder, and upon being called as principal witness against her. The counsel for the prisoner told Helen, the eldest, that if she could declare that her sister Isabella, had made any preparations, however slight, or had given her any intimation on the subject, that such a statement would save her sister's life, as she was the principal witness against her. Helen said, 'It is impossible for me to swear to a falsehood; and whatever may be the consequence, I will give my oath to my conscience.'" “The trial came on, and the sister was found guilty, and condemned; but, in Scotland, six weeks must elapse between the execution and sentence, and Helen Walker availed herself of it. The very day of her sister's condemnation, she got a petition drawn up, stating the peculiar circumstances of the case, and that very night set out on foot to London. "Without introduction or recommendation, with her simple, (perhaps ill expressed) petition, drawn up by some inferior clerk of the court, she presented herself in her Tartan plaid and country attire, to the late Duke of Argyle, who immediately procured the pardon she petitioned for, and Helen returned with it, on foot, just in time to save her sister." Out of this sketch has Scott created one of the most delightful of his productions, and Effie Deans, the Lily of Saint Leonards, we have selected as a fit offering to the readers of the Companion. The artist has chosen the character of his subject most happily. The evening star tells that it is the twilight hour, while Effie is returning from her humble occupation, full of innocence and beauty. "Effie was young and lovely-in her eye The liveliest tints her youthful face disclosed; There beauty sparkled, and there health reposed:" or, in sober prose, and in the words of the great master himself, “She was a beautiful and blooming girl. Her Grecian shaped head was profusely rich in waving ringlets of brown hair, which, confined by a blue snood of silk, and shading a laughing Hebe countenance, seemed the picture of health, pleasure and contentment. Her brown russet short gown set off a shape which time, perhaps, might be expected to render too robust, the frequent objection to Scottish beauty, but which, in her present early age, was slender and taper with that graceful and easy sweep of outline which at once indicates health and beautiful proportion of parts. The traveller stopped his weary horse on the eve of entering the city which was the end of his journey, to gaze at the sylph-like form that tripped by him, with her milkpail poised on her head, bearing herself so erect, and stepping so light and free under her burden, that it seemed rather an ornament than an encumbrance. The lads of the neighboring suburb, who held their evening rendezvous for putting the stone, casting the hammer, watched the motions of Effie Deans, and contended playing at long bowls and other athletic exercises, attract her attention. Even the rigid Presbyterians of with each other which should have the good fortune to her father's persuasion, who held each indulgence of the eye and sense, to be a snare at least, if not a crime, were surprized into a moment's delight, while gazing on a creature so exquisite-instantly checked by a sigh, reproaching at once their own weakness, and mourning that a creature so fair should share in the common and hereditary guilt and imperfection of our nature. She was currently entitled the Lily of Saint Leonards, a name which she deserved as much for her guileless purity of thought, speech, and action, as for her uncommon loveliness of face and person." As we have already remarked the position of the figure, the back ground and the time are all admirably in keeping. We can easily imagine the Scottish maiden with her milk-pail, returning from the King's park, chanting some snatch of a familiar ballad, such as "The elfin knight sat on the brae, The broom grows bonnie, the broom grows fair, And we darena gang down to the broom nae mair," her youthful bosom throbbing with delight in having met with "the gentle Geordie," artless and confiding— a bright star in the firmament of innocence, ere the clouds of sin and shame have shrouded for ever its bril Original. LEAVES FROM THE hitherto, to stay dinner, though I should have been glad of the invitation, having taken no breakfast before leav JOURNAL OF A POOR VICAR IN WILTSHIRE.* ing Crekelad. To satisfy the cravings of appetite, I BY MRS. E. F. ELLET. December 15th, 1764. TO-DAY I received from our Rector, Dr. Snarr, ten pounds sterling, the amount of my half year's salary. After waiting an hour and a half in the hall, cold and fatigued, I was asked to walk into his study. He sat in a large easy chair before his writing table, on which was laid the money due to me. He answered my salutation with a slight bend of his head, lifting at the same time a dark silken cap, such as is worn in the house in cold weather. Truly he is very dignified; and I never approach him without a sort of awe. I do not think, were he the King himself, that he would command more respect. He did not ask me to sit down, though he knew I had walked this morning eleven miles, through bad weather, to receive my instalment, but pointed to the money on the table. My heart throbbed painfully, while I strove to say what I had long made up my mind to say-to utter my petition for a small increase of salary. Would that I could lay aside this silly diffidence, when what I have to say need surely cause no shame! I stood like a culprit, and twice essayed to speak in vain. The sweat stood on my forehead: at last, looking up kindly, the Rector asked-"Do you wish any thing?" I answered hesitatingly-"Living is very dear, sirI find it scarcely possible to subsist on my present salary in these times." "Your present salary? you have twenty pounds, sir. Let me tell you, I can have a vicar in your place any day for fifteen pounds per annum." bought a roll from a baker's boy, and ate it as I walked homewards. On the way home I behaved like a child. My tears moistened the roll I was eating. Truly I ought to be ashamed of my weakness. Suppose, instead of being only five pounds a year poorer, I had lost the place entirely! When I think of it, indeed, twenty pounds are little enough to feed and clothe three persons. What then-are not the lilies in the field clothed? Who feedeth the young ravens? We must endeavor to live even more frugally than we have done. December 16th.-Jenny is a sweet girl. Her mind is as fair as her person. She is better than I, who am her father. I had not courage to tell my girls of my misfortune last night; when I did so this morning, Jenny at first looked grave-then smiled sweetly, and said"Are you disturbed about it, father?" "Have I not reason to be so?" "No, father, you have not?" "Dear child, we shall never have done with debts and troubles. I know not how we shall live." "God will take care of us!" cried Jenny, and laid her arm caressingly on my neck. Mary came and seated herself on my knee, seeing me look sad, and said by way of diverting me-" Let me tell you something, father. I dreamed last night, it was new-year, and the King came to Crekelad. Oh, what a magnificent suite he had! I thought the King got off his horse just before our door, and came in. We were at dinner, and had roast meat and vegetables. The King had some gold and silver dishes brought in from his own table. Then I thought I heard trumpets and kettledrums; and, only think-they brought in on a satin cushion a new-year's present for my dear father! It was a bishop's mitre "Fifteen pounds! Well-if he has no family, he all of gold! You looked very odd with that on your may possibly get along with it." "Your family, sir, is not larger, I trust, than it has been? You are a widower, and have only two daugh ters." "Very true, but these are growing apace. My Jenny, the eldest, is eighteen years old, and Mary is near thirteen." "So much the better-the girls can work, I suppose?" He did not give me time to answer, but rose from his chair, walked to the window, and drummed awhile with his fingers on the glass. "I have not time," said he, " to talk further to-day of the matter. Reflect upon it, and let me know if you wish to keep the place at fifteen pounds a year. If you decide that you will not, I wish you a better situation with the new-year." He bowed formally to me and once more touched his cap. I hastily put the money in my pocket-book, took my leave and quitted the house, too much agitated to speak. I wondered what had brought such a blow upon Some person has undoubtedly been slandering me to him. He did not invite me, according to his custom me. *From the German of Zochokke. head, exactly like the bishops in my old picture book. You seemed very well pleased, but I could not help laughing to see how strangely you looked. Then Jenny came and wakened me. Now, dear father, the dream of a new-year's gift must certainly mean something! It it is now fourteen days to the new-year." "Dreams are nought, my child," said I. "I do not know; but I am determined to remember my dream, and see if nothing comes to pass. It will not be so very wonderful if you should get a new-year's present." All this evening I spent in reckoning and calculations. Alas! it only perplexes me and makes me sadder at heart. December 17th.-My debts, I thank Heaven, are now paid, with the exception of one. At five different places I have paid seven pounds eleven shillings; I have two pounds nine shillings remaining. On that I am to subsist six months! I must do without the dark colored breeches I was about to order from the tailor, though I have pressing need of them. They would just suit me, and their price is reasonable-but Jenny is yet more in want of a new gown. I cannot bear to see the good girl wearing || I could have told the good woman that we had found her thin old frock this cold weather. Mary can do this man extortionate, some time since; he asking a without, her sister having altered some of her clothes penny a pound more for his meat than any body else; for her. and that when remonstrated with, he had boldly said, the money he had to wait for ought to bring him interest, and had shown us the door. I must also give up my share in the Times Gazette, which I have been taking with the weaver Westburn. I am sorry for that, for here without the newspapers one never knows what is going on in the world. The last number gives account of the races at New-Market, at which the Duke of Cumberland won from the Duke of Grafton, a wager to the amount of five thousand pounds sterling! How strange it seems that the words of Scripture should be so literally fulfilled-To him that hath shall be given:' and it may be added with truth'From him who hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.' Shame on thee, ungrateful murmurer! and wherefore murmur? Because I can no longer read the Times Gazette! May I be forgiven this sin! After all, I can learn the news from my neighbors almost as soon as I could have read them. December 18th.-How little it takes to delight poor people. Jenny has purchased a gown from the shopman for a mere trifle, and is now, with Mary, engaged in ripping it up to make for herself. She understands bargaining better than I do; but perhaps her gentle, winning manners assist her. She will wear the new gown on new-year's day. Mary has a hundred cheerful comments and prophecies to make. I dare say the Dey of Algiers never pleased himself half so much over the presents of the Venitians. Jenny thinks we can save enough from the table to pay for her gown, we are therefore to have no meat 'till new-year's day. The weaver Westburn is a kind neighbor-I told him yesterday I should have to give up my share of the Times-and he answered, shaking me by the hand"Well, then, I will take the paper alone, and you shall read it with me, my good sir." It must be acknowledged, there are more kind people in the world than we are apt to think, and more among the poor than the rich. Evening.-Though I owe the baker nothing, yet as Mary went to fetch the bread, which was half burnt, he began to quarrel with her so loudly that people stopped in the street. He protested that he would let us have nothing more on credit; that we must get our bread elsewhere. Mary came home crying. I am sorry for the poor child; we had enough to do to comfort her. Truly, this little hamlet is a wonderful place for news. It is currently reported that Doctor Snarr is going to provide himself with another vicar in my stead. That would be my ruin! The butcher, apprised of my coming misfortunes, has sent his wife to me, complaining of hard times, and regretting that it will be out of his power to furnish meat hereafter, except for ready money. The woman was civil enough, and abounded in expressions of kindness and esteem for us; I cannot blame her. She advised us to go to Colswood, and deal with him hereafter; he was rich, and could afford to wait for his pay. My little wealth has dwindled down to two pounds How this will end, I one shilling and three-pence. know not. And, if the Rector deprives me of my place but I will not anticipate evil. December 19th, very early.-I have been awake a long time, turning over in my mind what I shall do. I. thought of writing to Master Sitting, my rich cousin at Cambridge, but alas! it is the rich, not the poor, who Were I a bishop, as Mary thought me in have cousins. her dream, half England would be related to me. Finally I wrote the following letter to Dr. Snarr, to send by to-day's post: "REV'D. SIR-I write with an anxious heart. It is rumored here, that you are going to provide yourself with another vicar, and dismiss me. I know not if there be any ground for such a report, or if it has merely grown out of what was said at our last interview, which I mentioned to one or two persons. I trust you have no intention of dismissing me. I have endeavored to discharge the duties committed to me zealously and faithfully. I have preached the word of God in purity, and with a wish to impress the truth on the hearts of the people. I hear no complaints; nay, my inward monitor, conscience, does not accuse me. I cannot think in what I have offended, except in my humble petition the other day for an augmentation of salary, you then spoke of lessening it, though before it hardly sufficed to keep me and my family from absolute want. Your own human feelings, sir, may decide if I ought to be blamed for that. Under your honored predecessor I served sixteen years, under you I have served a year and a half. I am now fifty years old; I have no friends or patrons, no prospect of another place, and can think of no other way of earning my bread. My living and that of my children depend on your favor. Should you cast us off, we are reduced to beggary. My expenses, as I mentioned before, have been unavoidably increased of late, notwithstanding the most rigid economy. My eldest daughter fills the place of mother to the younger, and takes charge of the house. We keep no servants-my girls are maid, cook, laundress and seamstress, and the outdoor work I perfom myself. They have endeavored to earn something by taking in work, but little is to be done in this way. Crekelad is a small place, the people are not rich, and seldom hire assistance. I should not forget to enumerate mercies with hardships: we have had little sickness, and no occasion to employ a physician. This has been fortunate for us. I trouble you with this detail, to show you how much reason I had to wish for an increase of means. It was hard to live on twenty pounds a year, I anticipated more difficulty with but fifteen, but I have no other resource, and trust, sir, in your kindness and the mercy of God, to continue that to me-etc. etc." When I had sealed and directed this letter, I threw myself on my knees, and prayed that it might be successful, while Mary took it to the letter-carrier. How wonderfully relieved I felt in mind. Ah! a word to God is ever a word from God! I went forth from my chamber as light-hearted, as I had entered it sad. Jenny sat by the window at work, looking as serene and happy as if nothing had ever occurred to trouble her. How beautiful she looked, as the rays of the morning sun, pouring through the little window, were reflected on her face! I felt refreshed in spirit. I sat down at my desk to write my sermon. In the church I preach to myself as well as to others, and if nobody else is benefitted, I am; if no soul receives comfort from my words, I do. It is with the minister as with the physician-he knows the power of his salutary medicines, though not always their effect on the constitution of those to whom they are administered. Noon. This morning I received a note, sent from the inn, from a stranger who had lodged there all night, "That you will do to this poor actor what you wish Doctor Snarr should do to you." "That was not what I was thinking; but I wish such had been my thought." I counted out the twelve shillings and gave them to Jenny, that she might take them to the stranger. I did not take them myself for I wished to shun his thanks, which would have humbled me. begging to see me as soon as I could make it convenient. || and the request of the stranger. I wanted to have JenI walked down immediately and inquired for the stran-ny's advice. She said in a sympathizing tone-" I ger. He was a fine looking young man, of about seven know, father, what you are thinking-so I have no and twenty. He wore an overcoat, much the worse for advice to give in the matter." wear, and his boots were soiled with travelling. His "And what am I thinking?" hat, though originally of better quality than mine, was even more worn; yet, spite of his threadbare apparel, his bearing was that of a gentleman. I noticed also, that his shirt was of fine linen, and immaculate in white ness. He asked me to walk into his chamber, and after many excuses for the liberty he had taken in thus troubling me, informed me that he found himself at present in the greatest embarrassment, and having no acquaint- | Ingratitude always makes me more proud,—and now I ance in the village, when he arrived yesterday evening, he had applied to me, knowing that I was a clergyman. He was, he said, by profession a comedian, and on his way to Manchester, where he hoped for an engagement: but was just now unexpectedly out of money. He had not enough, in fact, to pay for his night's lodging and his fare to Manchester; he but needed the merest trifle -twelve shillings. That sum would relieve him from his difficulties-and if I would be kind enough to advance it, I might rest assured that as soon as he realized any thing from his engagement in Manchester, it should be thankfully repaid. His name was John Fleetman. It was not necessary for him to say how much anxiety his embarrassment caused him, as his distressed looks showed that more plainly than words. Alas! he must have read an answering grief in mine! When he ended his story and glanced at me, he seemed ashamed, and asked eagerly-"Will you not relieve me, sir?" Without circumlocution, I explained to him the circumstances in which I was placed, that the sum he required was no less than the fourth part of my whole property, and that I was by no means certain of retaining the insufficient support I had. With evident disap. pointment and chagrin, he answered-" We are companions in misfortune, I see I can ask nothing of you. But is there no other person in this village who has, if not wealth, at least sympathy for one in my strait?” I felt ashamed and vexed that I had been tempted to speak of my own unhappy situation, and to make that an excuse for being deaf to the call of distress. I thought|| over all my acquaintance in Crekelad, but found not one to whom I could recommend the young man to apply. At last, stepping up, and laying my hand on his shoulder, I said-" Mr. Fleetman, I am truly sorry for you. Have a little patience—I am very poor, but I will help you if I can. In an hour you shall have an answer from me." I went home. On the way I could not help thinking how singular it was that the stranger should think first of applying to me-he being a comedian, and I a clergyman. There must be something in my nature which draws the poor and unfortunate to me, like magnetism. Those in need come to me, who have least to give. I will venture, were I seated at a table with twenty others, and a hungry dog in the room, he would be sure to come straight up to me, and lay his cold nose entreatingly on my lap! will go on to write my sermon. Evening. When Jenny returned, she had much to tell me of what she had seen and heard, not only about the stranger but the landlady. The mistress of the inn had learned that her guest's purse was empty, and Jenny could not deny when questioned, that she brought him a loan from me. Then she had to listen to a lecture upon the folly of those who gave when they had so little, or who lent to vagabonds, when they had not enough to live on at home: with many prudent sayings, etc. I was still writing my sermon, when Master Fleetman came in. He could not leave Crekelad, he said, without thanking his benefactor, who had relieved him in so pressing a difficulty. Jenny was just laying the cloth for dinner. We had turnips and an omelet, and as our fare was better than usual, I invited him to partake it with us. He accepted willingly, having made, I suppose, but a sorry breakfast at the inn, and Mary was despatched to fetch some beer as a treat. The young stranger seemed to enjoy our social meal. His former expression of anxiety and distress was gone, but still there was about him an air of reserve and melancholy. He thought us very happy, and we assured him we were so. He took me to be better off than I had said; but in that he was mistaken. Our real poverty was not apparent to him, while every thing looked so neat and comfortable about us. The orderly appearance of our little apartment, the cleanliness of the floor and the windows, shaded by snow-white curtains, with the polish of our chairs and table, took his attention from the homeliness of the furniture. In truth, the cottages of the poor generally present such a scene of dirt and discomfort, as excites disgust as well as pity. They seem to think it costs too much to be clean. But this is a mistake. Order and neatness are the best helps to economy: so my lamented wife taught the girls. Jenny has learned this lesson admirably, and is teaching it daily to her sister. She has an eye for the smallest speck of dirt. us. Before long, our guest was quite domesticated with But he spoke less of his own, than of our prospects. He has evidently something still upon his heart; I will not believe upon his conscience. I noticed that he often paused in the midst of conversation, and seemed abstracted. May he be consoled, if he have need of comfort! When he left us in the afternoon, I gave him a good On reaching home, I told the girls of my adventure, deal of well-meant advice. He must know that theatri |