and he saw no more, till he found himself, at daybreak, lying, with the broken pipes and the love-token, under the ancient walls of Glammis Castle, upwards of thirty miles distant from Mucklebrowst.

Having made the best of his way back to Bauldie Quech, he found him quite another man, and joyfully preparing for his marriage with Janet Blythegilpie, of the East-Green, it being already known that Sibbie Carloups had been carried away in a fearful storm of wind, on Hallowe'en, at midnight; which the Piper's story and the production of the broken sixpence were supposed entirely to confirm. It was never very clearly made out how long Rory Blare had been gone, where he had been, or who was the Stranger by whose advice he went; for, whilst the Piper affirmed that he was absent but a single night, all Mucklebrowst declared that his office had been vacant for a week; and that he was certainly away at the fearful season of Hallowe'en. As to the second point, it was agreed that he had wandered to Forfar, or Glammis Castle, or perhaps had a drunken vision in the ruins of Restennet Priory. The howling of the wind through the arches, and his imagination, familiar with the superstitions of those places, might have supplied the witches, music, and revelry; together with the revelation of that secret chamber, wherein Alexander, surnamed Beardie, third Earl of Crawford, is supposed to be playing at cards until the Day of Judgment. And

lastly, the person by whose counsel he went on the journey was very generally considered to be a famous White-Wizard, or benevolent Magician, who used his art to counteract the Powers of Darkness.

Bauldie Quech became a person of consequence in Mucklebrowst, being made treasurer; and his name yet lives in it's traditions for having kept the municipal monies in a manner, worthy of the most primitive ages of the world. His depositories were nothing less than two large jack-boots, which hung beside his fireplace; into one of which he threw all sums received, and into the other all his vouchers for payments. At the end of the year both were emptied and a balance struck, though it is reported that, as there was some deficiency in the debtor-boot, it was thought more prudent to transfer the trust to other hands; notwithstanding which, the ex-Treasurer always asserted that it was the best way possible of keeping the accounts, since every one in his dwelling was of indubitable honesty, and "it saved a wheen hantle o' perplexing buiks and skarts o' writing." The good Town also gave Rory Blare a new stand of Pipes, by the first maker of his time, but they were never thought to be equal to those of St. Fillan; and to his dying hour he could never be prevailed upon to play the 'witching tune of "Whistle o'er the lave o't."

LIFE.

FAIR as her face is in the gladsome spring,
Glittering with brightness from the recent`showers,
Just as the earliest gold and azure flowers,
Casting their veils, to show themselves begin :
The daffodil to sport dank meads within,
While the sweet violet makes dry banks her bed;
And the flush rivers, newly purified

From wintry stain, swell up with ampler pride,
To mark the loveliness around them spread;
And light-careering, like the clouds which shed
Their sportive shadows as in mimic race,
Young living things bound wildly in their glee;
Still this fresh laughing earth wears not to me
The air of a bless'd spirit's resting place.
What need has such of all this fitful grace,
These playful wiles to court and catch the eye?
Precious, indeed, to chase our cares away
Is this sweet scene of springtide, joy, and play :
But inward happiness complete and high
Needs not such courting through the outward eye.
The calm magnificence so deep impress'd

On Heaven's high aspect, where rich worlds of light,

H

Too beautiful to cloy, though always bright,
Move with unchanging order, for the bless'd
Fulfill'd with perfect joy, seems fitter rest.

TO GLORY.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF CIAPETTI.

Glory! what art thou ?-'Tis for thee his breast
The daring man in dangerous risques will bare;
The Author writes to be of thee possess'd;
And for thy sake e'en death itself seems fair.
Glory! what art thou?—A like fate they share
Who but desire or have thee-losing rest.
To gain thee is great toil; but heavier care
Is his with dread of losing thee oppress'd.

Glory! what art thou ?-An illusion dear

Child of long labour, wind that blows the surge,

Sought amid toil, but never tasted near.

Those to mad envy dost the living urge—

Sweet sounds thy voice when death hath closed

the ear.

Glory! of human pride the bitter scourge.

M. S.

THE MYSTERIOUS HAND.

BY THE

66

AUTHOR OF LORD MORCAR OF HEREWARD."

"Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind, Nor words a language, nor even men mankind."

BYRON.

LIFE has many sufferings and many ills. In child-
hood the sorrow is of the fancy; in youth, of the
heart;
in manhood, of the spirit; and in old age, of
the memory. Yet are there other evils; evils inci-
dent to morbid and overexcited minds: sufferings
which the world knows not of, nor could comprehend
were they described. Among these the agonies of a
distorted and fevered imagination are, beyond all
doubt, the most incurable and the most deadly.
Reason is powerless beneath the spell of mental
horrors; visionary things, which gnaw away the
heart-strings, and, like the vampire, are glutted with
the life-blood of the victim.

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