es lopped, that only about six inches of each remained to serve as stairs, were let into holes in the floor; another was laid across for a breast beam; the tops served as joists; the branches as wattles; and the whole being covered with turf, the gallery was complete. The costume of the people rendered some of the ascents and descents a little picturesque; but as they were met in the kirk, and for religious purposes, harm and humor would have been equally sin. "The occasion" was of a different character. There was a good deal of the picturesque in it; but there was still more of the sublime.

Though one would have thought there were few of the elements of wealth about him, yet the minister waxed warm, not merely in the glen, but among his brethren in the presbytery. His glebe was of considerable size, both in arable and in sheepwalk, and he rented a good deal of both in addition. In the management of these farms he was imitated by many of his parishioners, and was really the means of altering the whole appearance of the glen. The hovels were replaced by cottages; the national grey clothes gave place to tartan; a few artisans came to reside in the glen; a general shop was opened; English began to be spoken; a few religious tracts were sold and read; and, though not without some crying of "Shame" at this innovation, the minister's wife appeared at church in a cloak and bonnet of black silk.

Parsimony, no doubt, aided industry much in increasing the goods of the minister. His meals were frugal; the every-day costume of all his family was homely; and though he was not without his potation himself, or at all a niggard of it to strangers, Donald Chisholm could best tell how far the procuring of that wasted his means. Though he had horses, and even after some years a saddle and a bridle (which were a twelvemonth's wonder in the glen), he used them very seldom, upon the plea that "it was sinful to waste the legs of a beast

ness in those of a man." Accordingly, when he wended to the presbytery, which usually met in a little town on the coast, about fifteen miles distant, he set out staff in hand, and took a short cut across the mountains. But he was at length cured of that saving by a waggish brother. The Reverend Walter Morrison, of the adjoining parish, had the misfortune to be a wit, and thus did not thrive so well, although he was by a dozen years at least the older man, and had the better living. But Wattie fished and fiddled, while Donald bred sheep and sold barley to the smugglers; and Wattie applied caustic, where Donald was in the habit of administering oil. In one thing they were alike: they both walked to the presbytery; though for different reasons-Donald from parsimony, and Wattie because he had no horse. The parishes were in glens that lay opposite, so that though the extremities were more than forty miles asunder, the manses were not two miles; and they were within view of each other. Wattie had a spy-glass, with which he used occasionally to make observations on the manse of Inverdonhuil. One day, just as he was about to set out for the meeting of the presbytery, he saw Donald leave his house, and toil up the foot-path on the hill. Wattie instantly posted off to the manse of Inverdonhuil; acted lameness a little ; mentioned where the white horse, the saddle, and the bridle were; and assured Mrs. M'Cra that her husband had kindly lent them to him for the day.

The evidence was too circumstantial for being doubted; the horse was got, saddled, bridled, mounted, and off Wattie rode. About half way he overtcok his reverend brother, broiling in the heat of a day in July, which is often very ardent in that district. Wattie smiled and nodded, but, without speaking, switched the horse and rode on. Donald was in high chafe ; but what with the action of his limbs, what with the evaporation from his body, it was fought down, and he began to think of the luxury of riding home.

When Wattie reached the village,

he rode to the blacksmith, told him to put a set of new shoes upon the minister of Inverdonhuil's horse, for which the minister would pay; and as the horse was so skittish, from under-working, that the minister was afraid to ride him, a little exercise in a cart or harrow would be very desirable. The blacksmith took the hint, and, by the time that Donald came, he found his horse tugging and stumbling among the clods in the blacksmith's field. The cup of Donald's indignation was now brimming, and, but for his holy calling, he would doubtless have doomed his annoyer to ruin. He strode to the church where the presbytery met, but the doors were closed. The fact is, that Wattie, who was "moderator," or chairman for the day, had got to the village two hours in advance, accelerated both the business and the dinner, upon some plea or other, and poor Donald reaching the inn after the cloth had been removed, was greeted, by Wattie and the rest, amid peals of sacerdotal glee, with full bumpers to the standing presbytery, preserving, likewise, "The memory of our late brother." Donald, finding Wattie throned in office, and knowing the danger of attacking him there, fought down his anger and his appetite in gnawing at the drumsticks of that goose of which he had hoped to taste the daintiest slice; while he had afterwards to pay his " 'fine,” and submit to the

jeers of the party, as to what sort of

lion in the path" might have delayed his coming, while the cruel Wattie became his crocodile defender, and, after some time, invited him to the chair, upon pretence of having a will to make. Donald took the bait, forgave the tormentor in his heart, and proposed his health to the company, with an eulogium upon his talents. Wattie did not return to give thanks, but, calling for the horse, intimated that Mr. M'Cra would call and pay for the shoeing, and so rode home. The minister, assured of his ride home, remained longer than usual; but his company getting thin, and his patience thinner, he went for his horse, and found that he had to walk home, which occupied him the greater part of the night.

The doors of conciliation were, of course, shut against Wattie; and, as his health soon gave way, Mr. M'Cra had interest to effect the "annexation of the two parishes," which bettered his living, and even led to the erection of a new kirk and manse, and the honor of a D.D. from the Senatus Academicus of the King's, in which the stipulated fee was dispensed with. From this time he became a new man; did the state some service in 1793; saw a vista opened for his sons in consequence; and when, in the fulness of years, he was gathered to his fathers, a marble tablet on the church wall recorded his virtues.

BESIDE her death-pale daughter's bed
The mourning mother stands;
The day is dead-slow night hath fled-
Yet still the mother's hands,
All night and day, are lifted there
In many a soul-taught, silent prayer;
And still the sigh of dumb despair,

Love's wild farewell-the natural knell Of hopes and hours remembered wellGoes forth upon the sickened air,

And makes the virgin-sufferer weep When most her lids seemed sealed in sleep.

A delicate and graceful girl,
A grown-up child was she;
A clear and ever tranquil pearl

In life's all-heaving sea. Her spirit like a flower sprung up, In love's own light she grew; Filling her heart, that fragrant cup, With passions pure as dew; But gifted with so high a sense, Formed in such utter innocence

So finely strung, so quickly wrung, A whisper from an infant's tongue Affected her with thoughts intense:

"Twas rare to see, in one so young, That deep, divine intelligence.

And now, when death is at her side, She grieveth less, in pain or pride, To feel the cloud of sickness fall Over her spirit, like a pall,—

Than for the trust, the ties, that must
Dissolve upon her darkened dust.
She weeps to see her mother weep,
And sickens with her sighs;
She cannot keep her soul asleep,
Though night be in her eyes.

At length the moaning mother yields
Her grief to slumber's shadowy folds;
And lo! along its phantom-fields

A vision she beholds.

She sees a band of beauty glide,

A troop of children fair, With snow-eclipsing brows, and hair In heaven's first sunshine dyed. In each uplifted white hand shows

A torch, whose flame is purer far Than ever fell from sun or star; "Tis Life, without its veil of woes; The Mind that brightens with our birth, The innate heaven of human earth. If as a sign those torches shine, The light within us is divine.

The mother's eye hath found,
Among those angel-children, one,
Her own-the death-dim child of sun.
She comes with wild buds crowned,
And every unnamed flower
That courts the crystal shower.
Along the golden ground,
That seemeth not by footstep pressed,

With many a seraph-sound
She moves more radiant than the rest.
And side by side together glide
The Mother and her Pride.

But lo! the flame so bright before,
The spirit-fire her fair child bore,
It burneth in the sighing air
A trembling token of despair.
"Ah! see, my lovely child, behold,
Thy light, thy life, is quenched and cold;
The other torches bear no blot-

But thine-it béameth not!

Some wind hath touched its holy flame,
Some dew that from the desart came.
Where nothing seems designed to fade,
Why walk'st thou in the shade ?"

Strange light is in the maiden's eyes,
Sad music in her tone.
"Alas!" the virgin-victim cries,
"The shade by thee is thrown!
Thy tears, my mother, how they fall-
In glee or grief the same;
Oh! weep them, mother, on my pall;

Those tears have dimmed my flame.
Each still and solemn shower-each sigh
Hath doomed my dazzling hope to die.
These life-like fires that round thee shine
Are sudden, sacred things; but mine,
Oh! mine was formed so sensitive,
That whilst you weep it cannot live!"

The mother hears the Voice, and wakes.
The bright forms fade, the vision breaks;
But, like a bird, each breathing word
Held music which her heart hath heard.
She finds that oft our life depends
Even on the tone, the glance of friends.
She tends her child without a sigh;
She watches, and her eyes are dry.

A CUSTOM exists among the smugglers and fishermen, in the towns and villages on the Kentish coast, of engaging with shipowners residing there for the perilous adventures of a cruise to effect the landing of contraband goods on some distant shore. Ireland is chiefly the course these expeditions are bound for; and many a smuggler's wife, while listening to the dashing of the rough waves on the shore of her home, and the loud winds blowing harmlessly over the roof of her dwelling, has breathed a prayer that the same storm may be landing her husband's cargo in safety on some unguarded beach, or filling the sheets of his good ship in eluding the pursuit of a revenue-cutter. These outfits are invariably made on the approach of November, and are denominated "The Winter Cruise." The vessels

ther, while bestowing her best wishes for a son's success, and endeavoring to smile away her apprehensions of what might befal, has looked upon him for the last time; he has departed-hoping much, fearing little-never more to be seen or heard of.

Folkstone, the scene of this tale, is only relieved by the hereditary good-nature of the inhabitants from a prevailing melancholy which every where presents itself, as bereaved mothers are pointed out to you, and widowed homes marked in every street.

It was late one night in the month of January, when the flower of the young men of Folkstone were absent on the Winter Cruise, that four women were seated round a sea-coal fire, listening to the heavy rain falling in the street, and the scolding wind as it echoed and rumbled in the chimney of the warm fire-place. One of the party-from her occupying the low-seated, patchwork-covered chair, and the peculiar attention paid to her by an indolent cat, who stretched, and purred, and quivered her nervous tail, while peering sleepily in her protector's face-appeared to be the mistress of the house. She was a young woman, about five-and-twenty, with all the happy prettiness of a country beauty-albeit an indulged grief had thrown a pale tinge over the clear red that still shone in her cheek, as if struggling for mastery with an intruding enemy. Her features, though somewhat irregular, if but carelessly viewed, failed not to secure the beholder's stedfast observance, from the peculiar interest which a full blue eye and light arched brow lent to the contour. She was resting her face upon her hand, and looking at the red coals in the stove before her ;-the others seemed to have just concluded a bit of country scandal, or the success of the sale of a secreted tub of hollands, from the pursing-up of their lips, and the satisfaction with which each appeared to lean back in her chair.

"in that very hollow of the fire, I can almost fancy I see my James on the deck of the Mary, looking through his glass to catch a glimpse of some distant sail. Ah! now it has fallen in, and all looks like a rough sea.-Poor fellow !" This was spoken in that abstracted tone of voice, that monotonous sound of melancholy, where every word is given in one note, as if the speaker had not the spirit, or even the wish, to vary the sound.

"That's what I so repeatedly tell you of," said a fat old woman of the group; "you will have no other thought; morning and night hear but the same cry from you. Look at me

is'n't it fifteen years ago, since my William, rest his soul, was shot dead while running his boat ashore on Romney Marsh

and am I any the worse for it? I loved him dearly; and when I was told of the bad news, I did nothing but cry for whole days; but then it was soon over-I knew that fretting would'n't set him on his legs again; so I made the best of a bad berth, and thought, if I should have another husband, all well and good; if not,-why I must live and die Widow Major-and there was an end of it."

"Ah! neighbor," replied the young woman, "you knew the fate of your husband-you were acquainted with the worst-you had not to live in the cruel suspense I endure; but if I knew that he was dead"-(and her voice grew louder, while the blood rushed into her fair cheek)—" I should think of him as much as I do now, and would think and think, and try to bring thoughts every day heavier on my heart, till it sunk into the grave."

This burst of affection for her husband was amen'd with a loud laugh by a young, black-eyed, round-faced girl, sitting in the opposite corner, who, leaning over to the speaker, laying one hand on her knee, and looking archly in her face, chuckled out"Come, come! she sha'nt take on so; if her first husband is gone, Susan shall have a second to comfort her."

"A second husband, Anne !-No!