ST JOHNSTOUN; OR, JOHN, EARL OF GOWRIE. CHAPTER I. Love is, or ought to be, our greatest bliss; In spite of reason and restraint we come- VERY different, however, were the sensations that assailed the graver and more thinking mind of the Earl, from those which actuated his brother, and the load seemed only taken from off the spirits of the Master, to be laid upon his own. For although, in the letter he had received from the King on his 29 ST JOHNSTOUN. arrival at Falkland, he could not precisely shape to himself any definite cause of alarm, yet he felt a degree of agitation, when his thoughts recurred to it, that seemed a presentiment of evil, which in reality was yet to be singularly fulfilled. This unaccountable impression on his nervous system, gave rise to a restlessness, which frequently prompted him to walk forth by himself, that! his musings might be undisturbed. It was in a mood of oppressive sadness, that the Earl strolled forth one evening toward the North Inch; the town having two plains, one on the north, and another on the south, called Inches, (or islands,) from their being partly surrounded by water. The sun was hidden, but the sultriness of the evening was not relieved by this circumstance; for there was a sulphureous smell in the air, and a red and lurid tint in the low hanging clouds, that gave promise of a coming storm. The Earl looked around him, and observed that all living creatures within his sight appeared impressed with this expectation.The women, on the beautiful level green he was approaching, were busily employed in running from one quarter to another, gathering up the snow-white clothes, which they had been drying on its flowery turf; while the sheep and cattle in the adjacent fields were seeking shelter from the hedges and trees, and standing in groups on the leeward side of every little knoll or bush. The sea-fowl were winging their way to their native rocks in the ocean, and uttering, as they flew, the wildest and most discordant cries; and the tide being full to the brim, the river, on whose brink Gowrie was walking, began first to be agitated, and then to toss its waves with a turbulent and troubled motion, while large drops of rain descended to meet its upturned broken waters. The Earl was about to take shelter from the storm in a deserted shieling, occasionally used by the salmon fishers, when he discerned, amid the louring obscurity, that a small boat had left the opposite side of the Tay, and was struggling through the river toward him; anxiety to see it reach the shore in safety kept him, in spite of the violence of the rain, rooted to the spot. The billows now rolled like those of the ocean, but still the sturdy strokes of the rower impelled the boat nearer and nearer, until, in a few minutes, it reached the shore where he stood, and he observed that it contained, besides the boatman, two women, who, from their gowns of Dundee grey serge, and their party-coloured worsted plaids, drawn over their heads, appeared to be peasants. They sat in the stern, each with a small light basket on her arm, covered with green leaves, and secured with twigs, in the way that gardeners pack fruit. The tide, as we have said before, was up, and the depth of the water at the edge of the bank considerable. The boatman stood up, and flinging a rope on shore, called loudly to the Earl to catch and hold it; Gowrie immediately seized the rope, and exerting his powerful strength, kept the boat |