old ballad, or some such thing, till he forgets what he was contending for, thus giving another proof of the powers of song. Some of the ballads with which he soothes his pettish grandson possess a tolerable degree of merit, and he generally can repeat them entire, and goes through a full recital, though often of a considerable length. Indeed his style of singing is not very difficult in its execution, being pretty much the same as the chant which some of our old precentors use. I have got copies of several of his ballads, by means of hearing them frequently, and using my pencil, according to my custom, and I here send you one of the most entire. It appears to have been founded upon some tradition of the country, as Howard is a very leading name here. Aglionby, also, was once a name of considerable consequence, but I believe the ancient family of the Aglionbys is now extinct. With respect to the reality of the incidents related, I could obtain no satisfactory information.

Young Howard.

THE sun shone out; the deep blue sky
Was cloudless, calm, and bright,
And over hill and valley stream'd

Pure floods of living light.

But brightest fell the peaceful beams
On Eden's banks so fair,

And play'd on the eye and the blushing cheek

Of a fond and a youthful pair.

The priest had clos'd the sacred book,
The holy knot was tied,
And young Howard had clasp'd the
trembling hand

Of his gentle, blushing bride;

And gaily over dale and down

Rode the gallant company;

The warrior's plume, and the maiden's robe,

Tossing and floating free.

The sky-lark pour'd his sweetest song,
High soaring through the air,
And the mavis woke the echoing woods
Till they seem'd the joys to share.

And all that met them, lord or clown,
Or knight or lady gay,
Stopp'd, gaz'd, and bless'd the comely pair,
As they hasten'd on their way.

So light to the ground young Howard leapt,
When they reach'd his castle door;

And their owner, all are thine.

"The reaving Scots thou need'st not fear,

Though bold their deeds may be ; A thousand gallant hearts are here Would bleed for sake of thee. "Oh, still thy fluttering, throbbing heart, And cast thy fears aside, And smile again with thy wonted smile, My own, my lovely bride!"

The lady smil'd, the lady blush'd,

And rais'd her moisten'd eye,

Then gently sunk in Howard's arms,

With soft untroubled sigh.

Her fair mild cheek leant droopingly

Upon his heaving breast;
While to his full and swelling heart

The beauteous maid he prest.

Her graceful, light, aerial form,

So delicately fair,

She seem'd a rose-bud scarcely blown,
Bent with the dewy air.

The youth so stately and so bold ;—
We ne'er again may see

A pair like Howard, brave and young,
And Jane of Aglionby.

Days, weeks, and months, with downy wings

Unheeded o'er them flew ;
And every passing day more blest,

And happier they grew.

When twenty little weeks and four

Had swiftly glided by ;

Her cheek a thoughtful paleness wore,
And pensive grew her eye.

And oft by Howard's side would she
At close of evening rove,
To breathe the sweet and balmy gale
Soft sighing through the grove.

It chanced, one evening, as she gaz'd
O'er the far western sky,
Sudden the fiery beacon blaz'd
Upon her startled eye.

From hill to hill the signal shone,
A fierce, portentous flame;
Wildly the warden's bugle rung,—
Fast mustering warriors came.
The lady mark'd the spirit wake

In Howard's kindling eye;
Clung to him close in terror,-wept,
And heav'd the moaning sigh.

With kindly cheering words, he strove

To soothe her timid heart; Sadly she rais'd her weeping eyes,— "Oh! say not we must part!

"Go not, my Howard! do not go, To meet the bloody Scot;

Oh! stay and guard thy own lov'd home;

My Howard, leave me not!

"For should'st thou go, with daring heart, To yon dread field of gore, I know I feel within my soul

I ne'er shall see thee more."

"Sweet lady! cease thy sad complaint!

I grieve to say thee nay; But when the warden's horn is heard Behind I may not stay. "Ne'er has a Howard shunn'd the field When rung the wild war-cry; And ne'er shall it be said of me,

A Howard fear'd to die.'

"But why thus darkly think of death?

Full oft this gallant blade Through stubborn ranks of Scottish spears A gory path has made.

"Nor will it fail its master now :

Then dry these fruitless tears; My safe return shall banish soon Thy dark, foreboding fears.

"Sweet lady! sigh not-weep not so!

I cannot see thee grieve!
Life-all but honour I would give
Thy sorrow to relieve!

"I love thee, lady! dearer far

Than all on earth below;

Nor would I cause thee an hour of grief For all that life can bestow.

"But what were life, were honour lost? A dreary sunless day!

Louder the warden's bugle sounds,-
I cannot, must not stay!"

She sobb'd, she moan'd, she rais'd her eye

Fill'd with the gushing tear; Low murmurs on her pale lip died, Stifled by woe and fear.

Now, merry England! hold thine own!

Arouse thee to the fight!

'Tis hardy Scotland braves thy pow'r,She knows not fear or flight!

Young Howard, like an eagle, cleaves
Resistless through the throng:
The wild war-tempest wilder grows
Where'er he sweeps along.

Fierce Armstrong sinks beneath his blows;

Stern Jardine feels his force;
But gallant Maxwell's weighty brand
Arrests the warrior's course.

Fell was the stroke; the hapless youth
Sunk bleeding on the clay;
The startled steed toss'd high his mane,
And wildly rush'd away.

The Scots prevail'd; their bloody bands
Loud rais'd the slogan yell;
Onward the plundering foray sped,
Fast over field and fell.

And all unheeded, where they fought,
The dead, the dying lay;
The wounded feebly from the field
Crept as they might away.

Long had the trembling lady stood,
With anxious heart and eye,
Bending her dimm'd and tearful gaze
Where rose the wild war-cry;

When Howard's well-known battle-steed
Burst on her startled view,
With blood-shot eye, and gore-stain'd
side,-

Her warrior's fate she knew.

Past rush'd the steed; the lady's eye
In frantic horror gaz'd;
Then one wild, heart-bursting cry
Of agony she rais'd.

Keen, eager pangs shot thrillingly

Through all her quivering frame; And 'mid the bitter throes of death She bore a mother's name.

Her little babe scarce saw the light,
Scarce for a moment tried
To raise his feeble, plaintive wail,
Then with his mother died.

Slow pass'd the sorrow-laden hours,
In deep and silent woe,
Till down the purpled western skies,
The sun was sinking low;

When weakly, slowly, dragging on
In feebleness and pain,
Wounded and weary, Howard sought
Alone his halls again.

No welcome from a dear-lov'd voice
Drop'd sweetly on his ear;
Dark fears rush'd on his throbbing heart,
Though he wist not what to fear.

Keen anguish curdled in his blood,
When o'er them bending low,
The widow'd, childless father stood
In utter, hopeless woe.

One long, long lingering gaze, he took,
With filmy glazing eye;

culiar customs, I cannot give you much information, as I am yet, in a manner, but a stranger among them.

There are some good-looking young women in the neighbourhood: but I am already quite sick of describing the persons and manners of men, women, and children; therefore, instead of wearying myself, and you too, very likely, with any more of it at present, I will tell you a little

wounds,

As rose the bursting sigh.

Beside his lifeless wife and child,

He, faint and dying, fell;

try, or rather conduct you in fancy through my haunts in our little corner of it.

My present residence is near the

name

Of her he lov'd so well.

They made a grave for this gentle pair;
They made it deep and wide;
They placed the babe in the lady's arms,
And young Howard by her side.

In

With respect to the rest of the people in the house I can tell you little. They appear to rise in the morning, because the sun has risen; -to go to work, because something must be done before breakfast-time; -to resume their work, because, without working, they could have no just claim for a dinner ;—and to go to bed, because night has come. short, eating, and wearing away the time between meals, appears to be their whole and only pursuit in life, and that, indeed, for which alone they think life was given. As to making any use of their reason, and those higher faculties which characterise man as a thinking animal, they seem to have no conception of any such a thing. Much of their conversation and manners is so gross and rude, that it quite disgusts me, and causes me wish and sigh for the society of those from whom I heard nothing but what tended to make me wiser or better. I will not deny that they have a plain, blunt manner; but their bluntness seems to me the effect of stupid, thick-headed insensibility. Perhaps, however, I judge them harshly, as I confess it is not yet in my power to form concerning them an impartial and unprejudiced opinion. With regard to their peculiarities of speech,-their wrestlings, their pony, foot, or sack races, and I know not how many other pe

ing rivulet, scarcely of sufficient size to deserve the name of a river, yet large enough to form a number of pools sufficiently deep to swim in. The greater part of its course is through a level tract of meadow-land, and its banks in many places are elegantly fringed with willows. In one place, after sweeping round a bending corner, of the deepest, richest green, and stealing quietly away, half-hid by the overhanging willows, it deepens and darkens into a gloomy, and almost stagnate pool, of considerable depth, and still more formidable appearance. A little below this is a gravelly ford, over which it hastens away with a lively purling sound, as if glad to escape from the dismal blackness of the pool; and a few yards farther it leaps over a considerable ledge of rock, which stretches quite across it, forming no contemptible waterfall. The pool I have just mentioned is noted for a singularly well-authenticated ghost-story. As the circumstance in question happened only a few years ago, and has not yet lost its popularity, you may perhaps not be displeased with a short relation of it, which, I assure you, I have obtained from the most authentic source.

A short time ago, one of the most respectable and wealthy farmers in the neighbourhood was observed by his relations to have sunk into a deep, settled melancholy; and from some expressions which he had used, they judged it prudent to keep all sharpedged instruments out of his way, and to leave him as seldom alone as possible. It happened, however, that, one day, something of more import

ance than common had occupied their attention, and the old gentleman was for a time forgot. The first thing which roused them from their neglect was, that no one could tell any thing about him, neither where he then was, nor where he had been last seen. A diligent search was immediately commenced, and continued for two or three hours with fruitless anxiety. At length, one young man, the son of a neighbouring farmer, going to water his horses at the ford above-mentioned, imagined he saw something half-floating in the pool, and, upon going nearer, discovered it to be the body of the unfortunate man. It was immediately taken out of the water; but life had been long extinct. His walking cane was stuck into the bank just opposite, and his hat hung on it, as if to point out where the body would be found, and close beside it, on the soft sand, the marks of his knees were distinctly visible, as if he had been engaged in prayer before he committed the fatal act.

These circumstances, and the observations to which they gave rise, were suppressed by his relations as much as possible, yet not so entirely but that they continued to furnish a subject for conversation and whispered remarks among the country people. Scarcely had the affair begun to sink into oblivion, when it received a fearful revival, by means of a strongly-confirmed report, that the old gentleman's ghost had been several times seen near the place where the body was discovered. Many were the wild and wonderful stories which were told and believed about the apparition. Some of the young men, however, who pretended to be wiser than their companions, affected to disbelieve the whole of the accounts, and upon all occasions turned the relaters of such tales into ridicule. None was more intent upon this method of treating the current opinion than the young man who first discovered the body, but his scepticism received a sharp reproof. He was in the habit of sending a boy with the horses to the ford every evening, while he was otherwise employed at home. This the boy had been accustomed to do with great pleasure; but about that time he

began to hesitate, as if unwilling, and at last fairly refused to go any more, declaring that he had seen the ghost several times, and that the horses had also been frightened, and become unmanageable.

Neither fair words nor threatenings were of the least avail; the boy's heart was seized with an over-mastering fear, and the young_man was obliged to go himself. For a few nights, all was well enough; but one evening, (I have the account from himself,) he happened to be a little later than usual;—the sun was set, and the western sky was of a dusky iron colour, with a deep reddishbrown intermingled among the black masses of clouds that were fast closing over the faint remains of daysky; all around was covered with a gathering, silent gloominess; he was gazing upon the high-piled, towering clouds, and the horses had begun to drink, when on a sudden they started, plunged, snorted, and rushed backwards from the river with such violence as nearly to dismount him. Upon looking towards the river, in search of the object which seemed to terrify the horses, he beheld a little, thin, old man, coming towards him from the pool, and at once recognised the likeness he bore to the drowned person. He instantly rode homewards; but as the road was steep and difficult, could make no great speed: the apparition came close to his side, and accompanied him almost to the stables, so that he had sufficient time to observe it completely, at least as far as his agitated condition would permit. Its appearance was the same as that of the body when first found, in all respects, except the face. The head was bare; and the long, thin, grey-hair hung in a dripping, matted manner about its neck: its knees were soiled with sand and mud, and its gait was a pensive, stooping slouch, such as that of the old man had become; but the face was indeed awful! The forehead was more deeply furrowed than it had been, and strongly knitted together in the centre, in the manner of one who struggles to suppress a groan extorted by acute pain: the eye-brows were drawn up into pointed arches, so as to give a wild stare to the dead, gleaming, stony eyes: the nostrils were expanded,

and the upper lip slightly raised, just enough to shew the teeth, closely and strongly clenched: the whole face bore a horrible expression of mingled agony and wrath, and struck a mortal terror to the heart of the young man. It kept gliding on beside him, never withdrawing its fearful gaze from him, and keeping his straining eyes rivetted upon it by some unaccountable fascination. Several times did the frightful vision appear to him, and generally displaying the same ghastly and terrific expression of countenance. Latterly, however, it became more horrific, and its whole features seemed darkened, and writhed into a malignant fierceness; and as its gleaming eyes glared upon him, he felt as if they seared him to the soul. But just when its appearances were most frequent, and the whole country was in a terror about it, a report was circulated that it had been spoken to, and that of course it would be seen no more; and accordingly it has ceased to terrify the good people from that day to this. That it was seen, many very creditable people maintain, some of whom aver that they themselves saw it ;-that it has been spoken to and laid, they all believe, though no one pretends to know either by whom it was accosted, or what were its communications, and all agree that it now no longer appears. The young man who gave me the foregoing account assured me, that, till he saw the apparition himself, he was firmly persuaded that all such stories had no better foundation than mere imagination and foolish credulity; but that he now cannot resist the evidence of his senses. I only repeat to you what I have heard: I give you my authority, and I leave you to believe it or not, as you feel inclined. You may laugh at it when seated snugly at your own fireside: it would not be advisable to do so here.

There is another little streamlet, of smaller size, which flows past our house, and joins the former at a short distance; upon its banks I most frequently take my evening's stroll. It has its rise among the little heights to the westward, and, after a short course among some flat, uninteresting fields, it struggles through a rugged rent in a slightly elevated ridge of

VOL. XV.

land, which you might traverse in all directions but one, without conjecturing that it contained a little glen of its own, with rocks, hanging bushes, a brawling stream, and all the other characteristics of a mountain pass, in a diminutive, indeed, but still in a distinct form. At the entrance of this little dell the banks on each side are composed of bare rocks, shivered and rent from top to bottom, and as perpendicular as the sides of a quarry. Soon after, the one retires, sloping backward, while the other, directly opposite, follows and juts out in such a manner as to give an idea of the one fitting into the other; but a little farther the gap becomes wider, and the bottom is heaped with considerable masses of loose rock, betwixt which the stream twists, and bursts, and recoils, and insinuates for itself a difficult passage, till, after struggling through two or three places such as I have described, it precipitates itself over a jagged precipice, into a deep black bason of scooped rock, from which it soon escapes, and winds slowly away to meet and join the larger stream formerly mentioned.

In the little ravine, I have chosen several seats and places of a particularly romantic cast, for my temporary stations of solitary musing; and almost every evening I spend a little time scrambling among the broken crags, or reclining beneath some of their jutting pinnacles, indulging in that delicious state of mind in which one allows thought to rise and follow thought in a vague, undirected manner, till fancies, reveries, and dreamy speculations, float dim and indistinct before the imagination, like fantastic clouds and mists gliding over the grey skies of evening. Such are among the most pleasant hours of my life; for indeed life to me does not abound with enjoyments. I have not, cannot have a comrade or friendly companion; I am quite a lonely being. It never was my disposition to be familiar with many : even in my school-boy days there were but few with whom I cared to associate in any thing of an intimate manner: but now I find none endued with any thing like kindred feelings; and that shyness and reserve, which was always natural to 3 M