The Sun.
London, England, 1866-01-11 00:00:00

A DISMAL PICTURE.

The horses pawed the ground for several minutes of
delay, and then appeared Mr. Menteitb, followed by Mrs.
Campbell—who was quite a grand lady now, in silks and
satins—but with the same sweet, sad, gentle face. The
lawyer and she stood aside, and made way for a big, stal-
wart young Highlander of about one-and-twenty or there-
abouts, who carried in his arms, very gently and carefully,
wrapped in a plaid, even although it was such a mild spring
day, what looked like a baby, or a very young child.
" Stop a minute, Malcolm."

At the sound of that voice, which was not an infant's
though it was thin and sharp, and unnatural rather for a
boy—the big Highlander paused immediately.
" Hold me up higher—l want to look at the loch."
" Yes, my Lord."

This then—this poor, little, deformed figure, with every
limb shrunken and useless, and every joint distorted, the
head just able to sustain itself and turn feebly from one
side to the other, and the thin white hands piteouslytwisted
and helpless-looking—this, then, was the Earl of Cairn-
forth.
" It's a bonnie loch, Malcolm."

" It looks awfu' bonnie the day, my Lord."
" Ana," almost in a whisper, " was it just there my
father was drowned?"
" Yes, my Lord."

No one spoke, while the large, intelligent eye; which
seemed the principal feature of the thin face that rested
against Malcolm's shoulder, looked out intently upon the
loch.

At last Mr. Menteith suggested that the kirk-boll was
beginning to ring.

" Very well—put me into the carriage."
Malcolm placed him, helpless as an infant, in a corner of
the silken-padded coach, fitted with cushions especially
suited for his comfort. There he sat—in his black velvet
coat and point-lace collar, with silk stockings and dainty
shoes upon the poor little feet that never had walked, and
never would walk, in this world. The one bit of him that
could be looked at without pain was his face, inherited from
his beautiful mother. It was wan, pale, and much older
than his years, but it was a sweet face ;—so patient,
thoughtful—nay, strange to say, content. You could not
look at it without a certain sense of peace, as if God, in
taking away so much, had given something—which not
many people have—something which was the divine answer
to the minister's prayer over the two-days'-old child—
" Thy will bo done."

Although he lives to reach man's estate, and his
head and features become matured, he never grows
beyond the size of a child of ten or twelve ; he is
never able to move or to use his hands even with-
out the greatest difficulty. It is in selecting such
a distressing physical unfortunate for the subject
of our continued contemplation (for we are
never allowed to forget the useless feet
or the poor crippled fingers), that we think
the author of a "Noble Life" has, indeed,
been sadly mistaken. The moral of the tale is,
of course, excellent, and the descriptions of the
workings of the mind and heart of the," noble"
hero are very forcibly portrayed, but the story is
likely to have an unpleasant effect upon many
readers ; and we are sorry to say so, and very
sorry to think it, for the perusal of a work by
the hand to which we owe the sweet, loveable

Christian, the ." gentleman" John Halifax, the
charming Agatha and her husband, the self-sacri-
ficing Ninian the devoted head of the family, and
so many others equally admirable and equally de-
lightful, is to us almost invariably a matter of espe-
cial interest and gratification.