"The sergeant-major was saying that in the red house over there," he pointed with his pipe over his shoulder, "there was some capital red wine, and he has conceived the mad idea of going over there to-night, with me, to fetch some of it."

The sergeant listened attentively. "Well, I won't say anything," he said very earnestly; "but I would not believe the story if I were you. I have heard that at night the house is full of French."

“Ah, it only wanted that,” said Fritz; "but what can I do? When the sergeant-major has taken anything into his head, he is as stubborn as a mule."

The sergeant shook his head. "Try to dissuade him from it; it is nothing more than suicide."

The volunteer swore an oath that he would not make one of the party. The sun sank slowly in the west. In an hour's time Fritz was successful in lighting his cigar. He regarded dreamily the thin blue smoke that came from the dried leaves. Then he enjoyed another spell of sleep, and awoke only as the last rays of the sun fell red and golden upon the copse behind. On the heights the bivonac fires were once more to be seen, and from the French camp the wind bore across sounds of songs and laughter. The clock of the cathedral struck ten. One after another of the men rose under the protection of darkness, and came out of the ditch to stretch their stiffened limbs. The volunteer also stood up, and felt himself touched on the shoulder. The sergeant-major stood beside him. It is time," he said.

"One word, sergeant-major," said Fritz, as he followed a few paces into the wood. "You know how glad I am to take part in the proposed expedition; but".

The darkness concealed the ironical smile that suffused the sergeant-major's counten

ance.

"But, on mature consideration, I feel myself compelled to advise you to relinquish the plan; the house is said to be occupied by the French at night, and we ought not to put ourselves in danger of being taken prisoners for the sake of a bottle of wine."

"Leave your gun here; it may be in the way, and catch hold of this revolver. I have another. It is loaded, so be careful."

Fritz took the revolver and submitted with

as good a grace as possible. "Forwards then, sergeant-major," he said, with desperate resolve. "I wash my hands of the matter."

"Wash away, if you like," replied the sergeant-major drily, stepping out. The darkness was perfect; the sky being overcast with clouds. As they arrived at the double line of sentries they were challenged. They replied, and gave the countersign, and then passed through the outposts, stepping out silently towards the enemy. Presently the sergeantmajor stood still.

"Don't you hear something?" he whispered. "No," replied Fritz, passing his hand over his perspiring forehead.

"Lie down!" called out his companion, softly, but energetically. His sharp ear had caught the sound of footsteps.

Both laid down upon the ground. One of the enemy's patrols passed by, within five-andtwenty paces, chatting gaily as they moved along.

"Shall we go any further?" asked Fritz, nervously.

The sergeant-major gave a short impatient laugh.

"Do you think we are going back now that we are quite certain not to meet another hostile patrol?"

The volunteer could scarcely contain an oath as they went forward into the dark night. At last there arose before them in vague outlines the dark mass of the house. Cautiously they advanced and listened. No sound could they hear. They felt along the walls till they came to the door.

"Will you keep watch outside, or come in with me?" said the sergeant-major.

"I'll come with you," whispered Fritz. He would not have remained alone for the wealth of both the Indies. The door opened with a creak, and deeper darkness than that outside yawned upon them in the ill-fated house.

"Wait a moment; I'll get a light," said Fritz's companion.

"Here in the second room must be the entrance to the cellar," said the sergeant-major, stepping quickly through the open door.

He struck a second match, and here also all was desolation. At the further end was the trap-door leading to the cellar. The sergeantmajor stood still a moment and remained attentively listening. Then he slowly and carefully descended the stairs, followed by the volunteer.

Once more the sergeant-major struck a light. Fragments of bottles covered the floor; three walls were bare; but there-his heart beat high with glee-there against that wall were a heap of red-sealed bottles.

"Hurrah! what do you say to that, Fritz?" "Capital!" said Fritz, in a particularly tremulous tone.

In a second the sergeant-major was on that side of the cellar, striking another match to ascertain his whereabouts, and throwing it away immediately afterwards. He laid his revolver upon the ground, and took hold of a couple of bottles.

"Come here, Fritz."

He slipped the two bottles under the volunteer's left arm, and two others under his right. He was about to reach forward again to the heap, when he drew back frightened. The jarring of the house-door had penetrated to his ears. "Hush!" he cried.

Fritz gave a start, and pressed the bottles nervously to his side, so as not to let them fall. Heavy footsteps were heard in the room above. Several men entered noisily into the second room-their weapons clattered. The sergeant major bent down softly to pick up his revolver. He felt here and there with his hand, but could not find it. He forgot that he had turned round. Perspiration came out upon his forehead in big drops. "Make ready!" he whispered, in a low voice, to the volunteer.

"I have got the bottles under my arm," returned Fritz, in desperation.

Above, a conversation was going on in an undertone; then a light was struck. A bright ray fell through the cellar-door upon the damp and shining cellar walls. Then all was dark again, the steps approached the trap-door-the party consisting apparently of three or four

Fritz shook so much, that the bottles under his arms clinked together. Feet were heard descending the cellar steps. The sergeantmajor made an energetic step forward, and thundered "Halt!" in a lion's voice. At the same instant a match was struck, and then thrown away in fright. A rifle was noisily cocked. The blue flame from the match continued to burn on the ground, and threw its ghostly light upon the shining helmets and red collars of Prussian uniforms.

'Halt-halt!" called out the sergeantmajor. "Friend."

"It's me, sergeant-major," said an astonished voice from above.

At your service."

What a cunning fellow," murmured the volunteer.

The sergeant-major was too overjoyed to listen to the sergeant's story; who had, so he explained, been secretly patrolling, and incidentally came past the red house. Well laden with bottles, they set out on their return, and reached the line of sentries without further mishap. While emptying the bottles, quoth the sergeant-major:

"Well, Fritz, the wine is good, but we won't venture again, I think."

The volunteer only said "No," but this "no" was the expression of his firm and honest conviction.-Translated by H. Baden Pritchard from Erinnerungen aus dem letzen Kriege.

CLEONE TO ASPASIA.

BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. We mind not how the sun in the mid-sky Is hastening on; but when the golden orb Strikes the extreme of earth, and when the gulfs Of air and ocean open to receive him, Dampness and gloom invade us; then we think Ah! thus is it with Youth. Too fast his feet Run on for sight; hour follows hour; fair maid Succeeds fair maid; bright eyes bestar his couch; The cheerful horn awakens him; the feast, The revel, the entangling dance, allure, And voices mellower than the Muse's own Heave up his buoyant bosom on their wave. A little while and then... Ah, Youth! Youth! Youth! Listen not to my words... but stay with me! When thou art gone, Life may go too; the sigh That rises is for thee, and not for Life.

-The Hellenics.

A TRUE GHOST STORY.

[Rev. Norman Macleod, D.D., born at Campbeltown, 1812; died at Glasgow, 16th June, 1872. Educated at the Glasgow and Edinburgh Universities, and studied sometime in Germany. Became minister of Loudoun, Ayrshire, 1838; of Dalkeith, 1843; and of the Barony parish, Glasgow, 1851. As a preacher and a man of letters he earned wide-spread and enduring popularity.

He was one of the Deans of the Chapel-Royal, and one of Her Majesty's Chaplains for Scotland. His principal works are: The Earnest Student; Wee Davie: Parish Papers; Eastward, a book of travel; The Old Lieutenant and his Son; The Starling; Reminiscences of a Highland Parish: The Gold Thread, a story for the young; Peeps

at the Far East; Character Sketches, from which the following is taken; War and Judgment, and other Sermons; Isbister and Co., publishers.]

&c.

Granting for the present the truth of the alleged facts of spirit-rapping and of tableturning; yet after hearing them, and comparing them with some of the mysteries I have myself collected, chiefly in the Highlands, connected with second sight and ghostly apparitions, and with other similar phenomena noticed by me in some of the remoter valleys of the Harz and Black Forest, I cannot possibly admit the one without admitting the other. Both seem to me to rest on such evidence as must compel them to stand or fall together. Perhaps some day I may enlighten the world by recording some of these.

I have no wish whatever to bring any reader who has made up his mind" on those mysterious topics, to my own way of thinking. I shall acknowledge it as a sign of progress in free thought if I am permitted to hold my own views without being condemned as a person devoid of all judgment or

common sense.

But one fact is better than a thousand mere arguments in discussing such a question, and I shall therefore devote the rest of this paper to a narrative, which the reader may rest assured is strictly true, and then I shall leave him to judge for himself as to how far such mysterious phenomena as it records can be accounted for. To myself they are profoundly mysterious!

A friend of mine, a medical man, went on a fishing expedition with an old college acquaintance, an army surgeon, whom he had not met for many years, from his having been in India with his regiment. M'Donald, the army surgeon, was a thorough Highlander, and slightly tinged with what is called the superstition of his countrymen, and at the time 2D SERIES, VOL. II.

I speak of was liable to rather depressed spirits from an unsound liver. His native air was, however, rapidly renewing his youth; and when he and his old friend paced along the banks of the fishing stream in a lonely part of Argyleshire, and sent their lines like airy gossamers over the pools, and touched the water over a salmon's nose, so temptingly that the best principled and wisest fish could not resist the bite, M'Donald had apparently regained all his buoyancy of spirit. They had been fishing together for about a week with great success, when M'Donald proposed to pay a visit to a family with which he was acquainted, that would separate him from his friend for some days. But whenever he spoke of their intended separation, he sank down into his old gloomy state, at one time declaring that he felt as if they were never to meet again. My friend tried to rally him, but in vain. They parted at the trouting stream, M'Donald's route being across a mountain pass, with which, however, he had been well acquainted in his youth, though the road was lonely and wild in the extreme. The doctor returned early in the evening to his resting-place, which was a shepherd's house lying on the very outskirts of the "settlements," and beside a foaming mountain stream. The shepherd's only attendants at the time were two herd lads and three dogs. Attached to the hut, and communicating with it by a short passage, was rather a comfortable room which "the Laird" had fitted up to serve as a sort of lodge for himself in the midst of his shooting-ground, and which he had put for a fortnight at the disposal of my friend.

Shortly after sunset on the day I mention the wind began to rise suddenly to a gale, the rain descended in torrents, and the night became extremely dark. The shepherd seemed uneasy, and several times went to the door to inspect the weather. At last he roused the fears of the doctor for M'Donald's safety, by expressing the hope that by this time he was "owre that awfu' black moss, and across the red burn." Every traveller in the Highlands knows how rapidly these mountain streams rise, and how confusing the moor becomes in a dark night. The confusion of memory once a doubt is suggested, the utter mystery of places, becomes, as I know from experience, quite indescribable. "The black moss and red burn" were words that were never after forgot by the doctor, from the strange feelings they produced when first heard that night; for there came into his mind terrible thoughts and forebodings about poor M'Donald, and reproaches for never having considered his

140

The doctor at last retired to bed about midnight. For a long time he could not sleep. The raging of the stream below the small window, and the thuds of the storm, made him feverish and restless. But at last he fell into a sound and dreamless sleep. Out of this, however, he was suddenly roused by a peculiar noise in his room, not very loud, but utterly indescribable. He heard tap, tap, tap at the window; and he knew, from the relation which the wall of the room bore to the rock, that the glass could not be touched by human hand. After listening for a moment, and forcing himself to smile at his nervousness, he turned round, and began again to seek repose. But now a noise began, too near and loud to make sleep possible. Starting and sitting up in bed, he heard repeated in rapid succession, as if some one was spitting in anger, and close to his bed,-"Fit! fit! fit!" and then a prolonged "whir-r-r-r" from another part of the room, while every chair began to move, and the table to jerk! The doctor remained in breathless silence, with every faculty intensely acute. He frankly confessed that he heard his heart beating, for the sound was so unearthly, so horrible, and something seemed to come so near him, that he began seriously to consider whether or not he had some attack of fever which affected his brain-for, remember, he had not tasted a drop of the shepherd's small store of whisky! He felt his pulse, composed his spirits, and compelled himself to exercise calm judgment. Straining his eyes to discover anything he plainly saw at last a white object moving, but without sound, before him. He knew that the door was shut and the window also. An overpowering conviction then seized him, which he could not resist, that his friend M'Donald was dead! By an effort he seized a lucifer-box on a chair beside him, and struck a light. No white object could be seen. The room appeared to be as when he went to bed. The door was shut. He looked at his watch, and particularly marked that the hour was twenty-two minutes past three. But the match was hardly extinguished when, louder than ever, the same unearthly cry of "Fit! fit! fit!" was heard, followed by the same horrible whir-r-r-r, which made his teeth chatter.

chair in the room was resumed with increased violence, while the tapping on the window was heard above the storm. There was no bell in the room, but the doctor, on hearing all this frightful confusion of sounds again repeated, and beholding the white object moving towards him in terrible silence, began to thump the wooden partition and to shout at the top of his voice for the shepherd, and having done so, he dived his head under the blankets!

The shepherd soon made his appearance, in his night-shirt, with a small oil-lamp, or "crusey," over his head, anxiously inquiring as he entered the room,

"What is't, doctor? What's wrang? Pity me, are ye ill?"

"Very!" cried the doctor. But before he could give any explanation a loud whir-r-r was heard, with the old cry of "Fit!" close to the shepherd, while two chairs fell at his feet! The shepherd sprang back, with a half scream of terror! the lamp was dashed to the ground, and the door violently shut.

"Come back!" shouted the doctor. "Come back, Duncan, instantly, I command you!" The shepherd opened the door very partially, and said, in terrified accents,—

"Gude be aboot us, that was awfu'! What under heaven is't?"

"Heaven knows, Duncan," ejaculated the doctor with agitated voice, “but do pick up the lamp, and I shall strike a light.”

Duncan did so in no small fear; but as he made his way to the bed in the darkness, to get a match from the doctor, something caught his foot; he fell; and then, amidst the same noises and tumults of chairs, which immediately filled the apartment, the "Fit! fit! fit! fit!" was prolonged with more vehemence than ever! The doctor sprang up, and made his way out of the room, but his feet were several times tripped by some unknown power, so that he had the greatest difficulty in reaching the door without a fall. He was followed by Duncan, and both rushed out of the room, shutting the door after them. A new light having been obtained, they both returned with extreme caution, and, it must be added, real fear. in the hope of finding some cause or other for all those terrifying signs. Would it surprise our readers to hear that they searched the room in vain?-that, after minutely examining under the table, chairs, bed, everywhere, and with the door shut, not a trace could be found of anything? Would they believe that they heard during the day how poor M'Donald had staggered, half-dead from fatigue, into his

friend's house, and falling into a fit, had died at twenty-two minutes past three that morning? We do not ask any one to accept of all this as true. But we pledge our honour to the following facts:

The doctor, after the day's fishing was over, had packed his rod so as to take it into his bed-room; but he had left a minnow attached to the hook. A white cat left in the room swallowed the minnow and was hooked. The unfortunate gourmand had vehemently protested against this intrusion into its upper lip by the violent "Fit! fit! fit!" with which she tried to spit the hook out; the reel added the mysterious whir-r-r-r; and the disengaged line, getting entangled in the legs of the chairs and table, as the hooked cat attempted to flee from her tormentor, set the furniture in motion, and tripped up both the shepherd and the doctor; while an ivy-branch kept tapping at the window! Will any one doubt the existence of ghosts and a spirit-world after this?

I have only to add that the doctor's skill was employed during the night in cutting the hook out of the cat's lip, while his poor patient, yet most impatient, was held by the shepherd in a bag, the head alone of puss, with hook and minnow, being visible. M'Donald made his appearance in a day or two, rejoicing once more to see his friend, and greatly enjoying the ghost story. As the doctor finished the history of his night's horrors, he could not help laying down a proposition very dogmatically to his half-superstitious friends, and as some amends for his own terror. "Depend upon it," said he, "if we could thoroughly examine into all the stories of ghosts and apparitions, spirit-rapping, et hoc genus omne, they would turn out to be every bit as true as my own visit from the world of spirits; that all that sort of thing is great humbug and nonsense."

We leave this sentiment with confidence in the hands of the illustrious dead, who spend so much time in disturbing furniture without even the apology of a hook and minnow. We have no doubt that Milton, Dante, Shakspeare, or Newton or Bacon, if properly invited, will cheerfully come as guests to any tea-party of true believers in London or Boston, to contradict in the most authoritative manner the doctor's profane scepticism. We shall be glad to hear the views of those distinguished men, who, it is alleged, though dead yet speak. We despair of the cat. She has been silent ever since her great début into spirit-land. Her lips though healed are sealed.

THE DREAM.

FROM THE SPANISH.

The morn was purple on the hills,
The birds upon the boughs were singing,
In sparkling crystal flowed the rills,

A thousand sweets the winds were winging: Yet still I slept: a lovely dream

Kept me still fettered in my chamber, In spite of song, or breath, or beam

That turned my curtains all to amber.

I saw a shape; pray Heaven some painter,
Whose brush with gold and flowers is gushing,
May see the vision yet-no fainter

Than when it stood before me blushing!
O, that some hand whose lute is sweeter
Than ever mine was yet, may listen
To those sweet accents! by St. Peter
They'd make a hermit's eyeballs glisten!
Her form was tall, yet not too tall;

Her face was beauty in perfection;
The mouth half-smiling, ruby, small;
The chin-but, poh!-no more dissection.
Let age descant on eyes and noses,

Let youth be happier-ay, and wiser;
Who'd shiver diamonds?-break up roses?
Take Woman all in all, and prize her.
She gave a look-a swift, sweet look,
Made up of all her charms together,
That all my recreant reason shook,
And wrapt my soul, the saints know whither.
It was not joy, it was not sadness,

'Twas passion, deeply, deadly spoken;
By such has love been turn'd to madness,
By such have noble hearts been broken.
She gazed: the splendour of her eye
Lay on my senses like a spell:
She spoke; her voice was melody

That search'd my bosom's inmost cell;
Her words were like her angel tone,
Of love, that not even death could sever.
I woke! hill, dale, and river shone;
I long'd to sleep and sleep for ever.

MARRIAGE.

Cries Sylvia to a reverend Dean, "What reason can be given, Since marriage is a holy thing,

That there is none in heaven?" "There are no women," he replied. She quick returns the jest:"Women there are, but I'm afraid They cannot find a priest."

ROBERT DODSLEY (1703–1764).