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And in its raving wild career,
Now here, now there, in flank and rear,

Dang wide the door.

“ Oh, grously Winter, auld, dour cbiel, At your dread coming, nought I feel

But dool and fear; Fell mower o' the human race, I wish I mightna see your face

This hunder year.

“ What brings ye here, auld gousty carle, Making our banes wi' aches to dirl,

Drawing our tears?
In sooth, your reign we canna thole ;
Sae, flee awa' to your North Pole,

Amang your bears.

“ I hear there is an unco clatter Ye've frozen every pipe o' water

A bonny pliskie ! And if we havena soon a thaw, I wouldna wonder, ane and a'

Would take to whisky."

“ Paulina! just Heaven ! what can have brought you so far from home?-at night, too, and weak as you are? it will be your destruction.”

She took no notice of the question, but fixing her quiet look upon the grave, she said—“ Father, I shall soon lie there."

It was the thirteenth anniversary of Paulina's death, and the swollen brook was brawling hoarsely down the inountains, for a tempestuous autumn had already anticipated winter. The shutters of the upper chamber were closed, and Philippa sat by the sick-bed of her last child. The sufferer raised her pale and languid bead, and whilst her dark eye appeared to wander in the delirium of fever, she said, with a struggle,—" Mother, is it not a mysterious imagination,--but I feel as if I had lived before, and that my thoughts were happier and better than they are now?" Philippa shuddered, and gazed almost with terror upon her child. “ It is a dream, Paulina; one of the waking dreams of over-watchfulness. Be still, sweet girl; an hour's sleep will refresh you.” As she spoke, Paulina did sleep, but there was little to refresh in such slumber. ller whole frame was agitated convulsively ;-her bosom heaved with unnatural beating ; her hands alternately grasped the coverlid, as if to tear it into shreds, and were ever and anon lifted up to her head, where her fingers twined themselves among the tresses of her ebon hair; her lips moved incessantly; her teeth chattered ; her breath came short and thick, as if it would have made itself palpable to the senses. Terrible gibberings succeeded, and her poor mother knew that the moment of dissolution was at hand. In an instant all was still,—the grasp of the band was relaxed,—the heaving and the beating ceased, -the lips were open, but the breath of life that had ebbed and flowed between them had finished its task, and was gone: a damp distillation stood upon the brow,—it was the last sign of agony which expiring nature gave.

That night Walstein dreamed a dream. Paulina, wrapt in her winding-sheet, stood opposite his couch. Her face was pale and beautiful as in life, but under the folds of her shroud he discovered the hideous form of a skeleton. The vision became double: a grave opened as if spontaneously, and another Paulina burst the cerements asunder, and looked with her dead eye full upon her father. Walstein trembled, and awoke. A strange light glanced under his chamber door. Who was there stirring at the dead bour of night? He threw the curtains aside. The moon was still up; an indescribable impulse urged him to rush towards the room in which the body of his daughter lay. He passed along the lobby ;-the door of the chamber was open ; the Hungarian dog lay dead at the threshold; the corpse was gone.

I dauner'd up to shut the door, For louder still the wind did roar,

But back I stagger'd, As, help'd in by a rushing blast, The open doorway quickly past,

In Winter swagger'd.

Frae his auld shouthers down did fa'
A mantle o' the driven snaw,

Like swandown tippet ;
For periwig, he had a fog,
Set jauntily upon his nob,

And nicely clippet.

Lang icicles hung frae his chin,
His een were blear'd, his mouth fa'en in,

He look'd fu' wae ;
His pose was red, his cheeks were blue,
His mottled legs, o' every hue,

Were bare and blae.

“Gudeman,” said he, “ as I gaed past, Your door was open'd by a blast

Aye gangs beside me;
And, oh, it gies me muckle pain
To find my subjects flout my reign,

And canna bide me.

ANE EXCELLENT NEW POEM, IN THE SCOTTISH

TONGUE;

“ Ye're just ane o' the thankless pack, Misca's me sair behint my back,

Black be their fa'! Sae I've, to vindicate my fame, And clear frae spot my blemish'd name,

Gien ye a ca'.”

SHOWING HOW WINTER CALLED ON AN INHABITANT OF

EDINBURGH, AND HOW THEY CONVERSED TOGETHER.
By one of the Authors of the Odd Volume,” “ Tales

and Legends,g'c. *
At night, as I sat in the gloaming,
Girning at wife and bairns, gane roaming

About the town,
The storm howl'd on wi' sic a din,
I thought the house, and a' within,

Was coming down.
The hail it rattled on the roof,
The blast came down the chimley mouth

Wi' hideous roar;

Thinks I, I maun the carle fleech, . For weel, gude certie, can he preach,

The cunning body! Says I, “ Auld sir, just take a waff O'that gude fire, we'll hae a laugh

Ower a drap toddy."

We have been indebted to the authors of the " Odd Volume" more than once, since the commencement of our labours, for lively and interesting contributions in prose. The above poem, abounding, as it does, in genuine Scottish feeling and humour, is a very succelulattempt in a new path.-Ed. Lit. Jour,

“ Gudeman," said he, in tone sae snell, “ Think not wi' sic as you I'll mell,

Or drain a tumbler, Until I've shown baith far and wide, That ye deserve a weel-pay'd hide,

Ye senseless grumbler !

Got up, a perfect hobbleshew,
For wife and weans, a merry crew,

Came thranging in.

“ Wi' friendly hand and tender care, I send my storms to clear the air ;

And raging flood,
To wisest purposes I tend ;
And may you see that in the end

They're for your good!

Cauld Winter would nae langer sit; “ Certie,” said he, “it's time to flit ;

My loudest blast Is naething to a woman's tongue !" And saying this, awa he flung,

And out he past.

“I mind, alas, the days of old, Wben men were hardy, brave, and bold,

Nor fear'd my rigour; Who would of snaw their pillow make, Nor ever think to grane and quake,

So strong their vigour.

“ Ye now have grown a feckless race, There's hardly ane can bear my face,

Though happ'd wi' claes ; Ye are unlike these men of might, Whose arms were powerful in the fight,

Ay, these were days!

“ I mind me well, how blythe and sweet, The leddies fear'dna me to meet

On causeway's crown;
Wi' wee mode cloaks, and elbows bare,
Silk mittens on their arms sae fair,

And scrimpit gown.

“ But now the misses look sae gaucy, As they sail by wi' air sae saucy,

Smoord to the nose Wi' boas, tippets, cloaks, and muffs, Lang veils, and nicely crimpet ruffs,

And Shetland hose.

“ Poets and lovers make a fraise About the summer's golden days,

And sunny bowers; And haver about buzzing bees, And meadows green, and waving trees,

And blushing flowers :

“ But, certie, they would look gey queer, Were Sol to rule through a' the year,

Their skins to roast ; They'd glad exchange their trees and bowers, Their shrubs and plants, and fragrant flowers,

For clinking frost.

NUGÆ LITERARIÆ. By the Author of " Dialogues on Natural and Revealed

Religion," gc. Ethics- The science of conduct and manners, considered more with a view to practice than theory. The term, Moral Philosophy, comprehends, farther, the metapbysical discussions concerning the principles of moral approbation, whether they belong to a particular faculty, or may be resolved into some more general fact in the human constitution. The ethical, or practical branch, was more exclusively the moral philosophy of ancient times. It is treated with much fulness, ability, and eloquence, in the writings of Aristotle and Cicero. In modern times, ethics, properly so called, has necessarily been connected with religion ; and the strongest motives to a virtuous life, and the laws by which it is regulated, have been derived from the sources of Divine revelation. Hence, except in the pulpit, or in treatises professedly religious, we seldom meet with ethical discussions. To separate morality from religion, is commonly looked upon with a suspicious eye. The one seems imperfect without the other ; and accordingly, there are few modern books of mere morality, which are written with much glow and animation, or which find a ready sympathy in the reader. It is in the writings of the illustrious ancients that ethics appear in all their dignity; because, so far from being any thing inferior to the system of religion in those ages, they were evidently a great improvement upon it. The more professed ethical writers of modern times have generally exhibited the system of human duties under a more worldly and less elevated aspect than those of antiquity. Wishing to avoid as much as possible the topics and the tone of the pulpit, they have restricted their views to mere prudential considerations, or have even polluted the springs of morality by the corrupt maxims and fasbions of the day. In the hands of Aristotle or Cicero, and perhaps still more in those of Xenophon and Plato, morality seems always to be rising above the present sphere of existence, and to be struggling to break into some higher field. In the moralists of the French school, lead is rather tied to its wings; or while they are painted with artificial colours, they beat and flutter amidst impurity and defilement. There are many important and lively observations on life and manners in Montagne, Rochefoucauld, and our own Chesterfield ; but they do not produce that elevation of thought and feeling, wbich is so inspiring in the great writers of antiquity; and they often, on the contrary, mislead and debase. The finest moral writers of modern times are Fénélon and Addison, because they are at all times drawing their inspiration from the sources of Christianity, even while they profess to do little more than to moralize after the manner of Socrates.

Filial Piety. It is a pleasing circumstance to observe in heathen times certain compensations for the gross corruption and follies of their religious system. If they could have no moral satisfaction in the worship of their deities, they enjoyed somewhat of the sublimity of the religious sentiment in their devotion to their country, and Filial Piety came in the room of the tenderness and submissiveness of that sentiment to which now the term

“Suppose, gudeman, I took the gee, And no set foot across the sea,

Whare's a' your joys ? Ay, whare would be your skating, curling, Your sliding, snawba's, and your hurling,

And heartsome ploys?

“ From Arthur Seat I oft did watch, To see the merry curling match ;

Nay, at their dinners, I've seen the round of beef and greens Encircled by a band o' freens,

Losers and winners.

“ I mind that on the Calton Hill, I lang hae stood and laugh'd my fill,

Till shook my shanks, To see the schoolboys at their play, And far too short my winter day

For a' their pranks."

Auld Winter, brimming wi' vexation, Was now cut short in his narration,

For sic a din

of Piety is more exclusively attached. Under the influ- | that we are not here in our true position. That we are ence of Christianity, these affections, no doubt, are sub- capable of the highest relish of happiness, many occasional stantially improved; but they stand out more conspicuously enjoyments of our present being sufficiently prove; but in the history of ancient times. And while the splendid tranquillity and a calm contentment are the most usual exhibitions of patriotism there held out to us have made forms of happiness in this life. Turbulent pleasures all our youthful hearts to beat and to glow, the beautiful bave but a short duration ; and many men have so great stories which have come down to us of the duty shown a distaste to a low and tranquil state of happiness, that to parents by their children, are among the most deeply they will rather plunge into the midst of cares and moral impressions which these ages have conveyed to us. hazards than flow down quietly with the stream. The They are well deserving of the emulation of more en- intensity with which we are capable of suffering is, in lightened times, which are apt sometimes to quench some truth, a proof of our capacity of enjoyment. When we of our best affections, by subjecting them too coldly to are deprived of any thing on which we had set our hearts, the calculations of reason, without taking into the account though, while we possessed it, it may never have contrithe feelings from which they naturally arise. Filial piety buted so invariably to our happiness as we seem to feel appears most lovely when it is exercised amidst the weak- upon its deprivation, yet all the sources of bappiness which nesses and failings of parents, and when, overlooking belonged to it then open upon our thoughts and feelings, mucb that must be blamed, the child regards his parent unmingled with any other recollections. A man who solely in the sacred character of the author of his exist- has lost an affectionate wife, feels only the wretchedness ence, and as the guardian and protector of his infant and and solitude of his coudition, and paints to his imaginaearly years. These are strong claims to affection and tion the delights which his union with her was capable reverence, and, in good minds, they are never without of giving him, rather, perhaps, than those which he really their weight; but it ought to be impressed upon the derived from it. Her image now seems to unite at once minds of parents, that the filial love of their children in his fancy all the happy illusions of youthful love, and depends mainly upon their conduct to them, and that, in all the long-tried experiences of steady affection. Yet the common defective state of human character, little their hours of bappiness may have been broken in upon more than outward or prudential demonstrations of duty by many little wayward caprices and touches of ill-hucan be expected from a child to a harsh, an unprincipled, mour now forgotten, often, certainly, by other avocations or a neglectful parent. It scarcely ever happens that a and enjoyments. In the same way, a man who has lost child does not retain the utmost reverence and regard for a fortune, rather laments over what this fortune was a parent who has shown himself really such in the cpaable of making him enjoy, than wbat he really enjoyed interest and concern wbich he takes in the welfare of his from it: he crowds into one picture all the pleasures, in child; and whatever may be the errors of wilfulness and all their imaginary intensity, which lay scattered and disobedience into which the child may run, the affection- imperfect over many years ; and he laments more for ate character of the parent will very seldom indeed fail what he fancies he has lost than for the real deprivation. of being met by duty or by penitence in return.

The intensity of grief then arises from the perfect pictures Grier. It is singular to contemplate the human mind of happiness which the human mind is capable of formunder the various impressions to which it is subject. It ing, and which we may therefore hope can be ultimately is so sensitive, and so easily made to run from one train realized. The effect of time in removing grief, is by its of feeling into another! Men, in their general aspect, gradual operation in disjoining the groupes which imaare happy, or, at least, at ease. They talk, they laugh, gination thus has formed, in softening its colours, and they meet in convivial intercourse ; you would think bringing back again the mingled and imperfect lineaments they were created only for mutual sympathy and enjoy- of human happiness as it really exists in this world. ment. All of a sudden, the brow of the gayest and

R. M. lightest-hearted is overcast,—tears roll from his eyes, and the voice which was the organ of mirth, is made to utter the sounds of wailing and complaint. For

THE FAITHLESS. a time, the mourner is wholly absorbed in the affliction It was my bridal morning, and my bride was fair and under which he labours ; he exists solely amidst images

young, of sorrow ; all the amusements and intercourse in which And her goodness and her graces were the praise of every he delighted are distasteful to him; he runs into solitude, tongue ; or seeks only the society of some friend, of whose sympathy And friends were met, with looks of joy, so fair a sig ht he is secure. Were not these the most common appearances of human nature, we should scarcely conceive that And thousand prayers and blessings pour'd for Adeline the same being could exhibit frames of mind so different.

and me! One would imagine that the insecurity of his state would damp all his enjoyments, or that the knowledge which They knew not, 'mid that festal scene, my heart alone he possesses of the probable return of his relish for the was sad,common pleasures of society, would at once dispel his The very heart they idly deem'd the proudest, the most

Why am I to laugh and rejoice to-day, when glad ; to-morrow I may be in the depths of despair ? or why They knew not that a shadow slept beneath the smiles I am I now to be a martyr to grief, when, in no long time, I shall again enter into the common stream of occupation A thought of one then far away, whom I had loved before! or amusement ? This representation certainly points to the present character of man as something very imperfect, I gazed upon the form and face of her I call'd my bride, and little under the dominion of any steady forethought. I knew her virtues and her charms—and yet I felt no It shows us that we, in fact, continue children from the

pride ; cradle to the grave. But the very vebemence of our I could not bear her bridal robes, her diamond-circled emotions indicates, at the same time, a fund of character

brow,upon which something much more regular and stable Another should have held her place—where was that may be built. And this is chiefly the case with our

lost one now? emotions of grief. If man is more commonly happy than miserable, he yet suffers much more intensely than he She had not broken her faith to me,--for she was pure enjoys. It is Mr Hume who has somewhere remarked, and true, that happiness seldom rises to rapture; but pain--how And my affection was the first that e'er her 'bosom viten does it amount to agony! This seems to tell us, knew ;

to see,

sorrows.

Wore

But wild Ambition round my path her golden fetters wove, then, to this trash--to this turpitude! Thousands, tam-
And in her maddening chase my soul forgot its early love! pering, trespassing thus, totter to their turiy tomb,—then

tumble topsy-turvy through Tartarus's trap, thus termi. It was a feverish dream, to think, for vanity and gold, nating their tragical tale. The thunder's touch transfixes My peace of mind for ever should be rashly, basely sold; their tall though transient towers, that topple then; their That I should stake a willing oath through all my years twinkling tiaras, their tumid thrones-thrive they thereto live

after ? That terrible tribunal tells their thin tenure! With one to whom a form of love was all my heart could Terrific transition to transgressors thus tost to torment ! give!

Twig their trepidation !

Turn, therefore, timeously, trustingly, to thy tutelary I stood before the altar, but I trembled as I stood, teacher ; take thyself timidly to the temple, that tells thee For I saw, as in a dream, the form of one in solitude ; tenderly thy true, thy tangible treasure. Though terrors And ever as I turn'd away that vision pale to shun,

teem, though troubles thicken, though temptations tanStill-still she was before my sight--that lone, forsaken talize, though tumults toss, though turbid tempests thwart, one!

-thirsten thereafter--try to travel thitherward! Though

toilsome the tour--though threatening to the timorous And I was wed !-and time pass'd on; bat still through

the track, the throes turn tolerable through time; thus all my hours

tells the Testament through thousand texts. Traditions, A scorpion wore away my peace, as mildew blights the too, transmitted through trackless time, tell this, thinkflowers ;

est thou that they traduce the truth? Transfuse their Where'er I look’d, her eye on mine was fix'd in mournful transparent tenor ; transplant their teaching tendency ! gaze,

Thou traitor to thyself, transmụte thy truant tactics ; And full of earnest tenderness, as in the bygone days !

turn to the trge tack; transform thyself; throw to the

torrent thy tinkling toys, thy tawdry tinsel, thy trivial They tell me that her noble heart is faithful still to me,

trinkets, thy too trim trappings! Their tainting, tyran. That never blame falls from her lips for my inconstancy:

nical thraldom tangles thee; therefore, trample their They say her cheek has lost its hue !--that all her wishes trammels to tatters! crave,

Turbulent tyro, too tenacious to thy treacherous tenets Is but for me a blessing,—for herself, an early grave !

Thinkest thou thy tutor too talkative, too tedious ?

Termest thou this theme trite, tiresome, teasing, tautoOh! would that she had loved me less ! or that we ne'er logical ? The topic twinges thee, then? Transcribe bad met!

thankfully the totality thereof; try therewith to titillate That grief was mine alone, and she the past could all thy tongue, to tax thy thoughts, to thaw thy torpor, to forget!

transpierce thy twilight trance, to touch thy tough temOh! would that she could read my soul—my pale and perament, to tame thy tremendous temerity! Tie this feverish brow!

talisman tightly to thee ; twine this treatise to thy tablets ! Her deepest woe is ecstasy to what I suffer now!

The T treat terminates ; the treated train tardily trail

their toes to the tune “ Turn-out !" I dwell in halls of splendour-I have all the world can

Trusty typographer! this trieth thy types' transferagive,

bility-thy title to tittle-tattle throughout tea-time ! But solitude is round me and I start to think I live :

LORMA.
One hope alone gives happiness to him, the false of

faith
Remorse will play the murderer's part, and bring me

ENIGME.
welcome death !

Peux-tu m'expliquer, chère et belle,
GERTRUDE.

Qu'entre nous deux le différend
Ne va pas plus d'une voyelle?

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TERRIBLE TIDINGS TO TERRESTRIAL

TRANSGRESSORS.

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BEING AN AL-LITERARY CURIOSITY IN THE SHAPE OF

A T PARTY.
That taste, those talents, that throw their triumphant
tinge throughout this transitory terrestrial theatre,—ter-
minate they totally there? Terrific, treasonable thought!
That tender throb,—those trickling tears,ấtalk truly ;
they tacitly tell, that tbose treasures transmigrate to the
tranquil territory that tabernacles this temporary tene-
megt's translated tenant. Thus testifies, too, the trans-
lucid Tome that teacheth transcendent truth. Trans-
porting, thrilling tidings! There they take their true
tone,_their true tension. This thorny time terrestrial,
'tis true, tries them, tests them ; those, therefore, that
tarry to tend them to true things, to temper them thorough-
ly, transgress terribly! They that truly travail through
this their trial-time, touch the tree-top.

Thou temporizing, time-thieving trifler, take thought!
Tarriest thou to try this tempting toil ? Tremble then ;
think, that though to-day thou talkest trippingly thy
tasteless tattle, trollest titteringly thy tinkling tune,
twirlest thy twisted toes, trumpetest thy turgid transac-
tions, tracest thy tortuous tricks, tincturest tastefully thy
tint, to-morrow thy transitory time terminates ! Truce,

GRIEF'S PHILOSOPHY.

By W. M. Hetherington,
“ Tais world is but a dream,

Peopled with forms ideal ;
Dark gloom or sunny gleam,
Fear's night-cloud, Hope's day-beam,

Are all alike unreal.

« We love, we hate in vain,

Joys, sorrows, all deceive us;
The gust of bliss or pain,
Hope's rainbow, Mişery's chain,

Flatter, torment, and leave us.

“ Life! 'tis an aimless path,

Harsh, pleasureless, and dreary ;
A contest waged with death,
A fitful, anxious breath,

Troubled, oppress'd, and weary!"

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“ But who, dark One, art thou,

the air invisible, and hast seen what I have been doing ? At the world and life thus railing ?

for, otherwise, neither thou nor any human being save one Go, hide thy gloomy brow

knowest that." Where spray-mists shroud the bough,

“ I know all that you have done, and all that lies beAnd cavernd winds are wailing !"

fore you to do," said she; “ and among other things,

where your head lay the night before last, and also how “ Yes, I may hide my head

dearly you will repent it.” Where life-scenes ne'er shall wake me;

“ Hold your peace concerning that, infernal hag !" Loves, friends, are lost—are dead

cried he, in utter consternation. “And now that I know Joys, hopes, afar are fled

you either deal with heaven or hell, pray tell me what is Wishes even fears forsake me !"

to be my fortune ?”

“ Give me two French crowns, then," returned she, “ Yet, raise thy head on high,

“ of which you have plenty in your possession, and not Thou timid, weak immortal!

very fairly come by either.” Thy home's beyond the sky,

The earl made the sign of the cross on his brow and The woes that cloud thine eye,

his breast-looked up to heaven, and, with a deep sigh, Mere shadows in life's portal !

blessed himself in the name of the holy Virgin, and all

the saints of the holy Calendar; and taking out two « Though thine alone should be

French crowns, he gave them to her, and then said, Whole earth, with all its treasures,

“ Now.” Heir of Eternity !

“ Ay, now," said she ;-"and what does that import? Oh! what is Time to thee,

Do not you know that there was never a well-done deed, Its fleeting pains and pleasures ?

nor a wise saying, with a now at the end of it? But to

show you that I know the past, the present, and the fu“ Take all, take every wish,—

ture, have not you, for the last three days, been parleyJoy's sparkling nectar draining,

ing with a great man, the mortal enemy of your house Swift to thy longings rush,

and your religion? And you think you have outwitted Thy grasp the rose will crush,

him; but he has outwitted you. But what a fool were But leave the thorn remaining !

you to propose the strengthening of his party!"

“ You are right, beldam, you are right,” said he, “ Then bless thine agonies,

quickly and emphatically; “ but I never purposed it in Life's pleasure-snares dispelling,

my heart.” Teaching thy soul to rise

“ No, you did not,” said she. “ But you have taken To its own native skies,

fire in your bosom, and you are burnt with it; for meOf Peace, Love, Joy, the dwelling !

thought I saw a beautiful, plump, and amorous lady, with red hair and black eyes, not over young though, for whose

love you betrayed the secrets of your party. What a fool A STORY OF THE BLACK ART.

you were, if I saw truly! But what do you think?- the Part II.

earl knows all that passed between you."

“ May all the powers of heaven and hell forbid it, By the Ettrick Shepherd.

witch !" exclaimed he furiously. “ I would not for the LADY ELIZABETH and Janet being now left free to their half of my earldom that these words were true." own exercises, to work they went, and their first effort was “ He knows all; so look to yourself. And now you to attempt gaining for the young lady's husband, a near purpose to go forth with and ask the Lady Margaret neighbour of theirs, the first Catholic nobleman in the Ogilvie in marriage. You know you will not be refused, kingdom, if not the most powerful subject in it; and this for your powerful interest is at present the prize of comnobleman we shall denominate Earl George, as that was petition between all parties. But you know, or ought to really his Christian name.

know, that she is affianced to the Earl Marischal; and in But Lady Elizabeth had never seen him ; and there even making the proposal, you make your best and most fore, before she put any of her charms to the test, she powerful friend your enemy." resolved to go and see him in disguise ; and her father, “ Who the devil are you, wife ? for I declare that you Lord Robert, having been sent for to court, she had full not only amaze, but terrify me. Surely it is impossible leisure for her design. Accordingly, either Jenny El- that a familiar spirit, that is, a demon, can know the purphingston, or that other being who appeared so often in poses of the human heart. Therefore, declare to me who her likeness, waylaid Lord George one morning as he you are, and whence you have this knowledge, and I will was taking his accustomed early walk. She was dressed reward you; for at present you are to me a being quite like a wandering gipsy, or fortune-teller; and as Lord | incomprehensible.” George approached, she burst out a-laughing. This “ So I am to myself. Hold your peace on that point. caused him to pause and eye her with a curious and good. But confess that I am right.” humoured look; for it is almost impossible to hear one “ So far you are; but also so far wrong. For, when laughing very heartily, without at least smiling in accom- I wed the Lady Margaret Ogilvie, I have a sure bait for paniment. “I cry you pardon, noble earl," said she; the Earl Marischal.”

may our Lady bless you, and mend your wit, for really “ Ha-ha-ha! Ay! Go away with your baits, and I cannot help laughing at you !"

your gossamer-woven purposes ! But I tell you beforeAnd pray, why so, impertinent vagrant ?" said his hand, that you will never wed the Lady Margaret Ogillordship.

vie. Nay, you will never ask her; for before you see her, “ Because you have been on a fool's errand for these you will lose your heart to another, and that other will three days,” said she, " and you are going on another to

Good by, my lord. I have told you enough day, and a third to-morrow. What a pity that so goodly to engage your thoughts at present ;-enough for my two a young chief should have no better wit !"

French crowns. When you require my advice, I will Lord George was astounded when he thought of what come to you unsent for." And with that she glided away, he had been engaged in for the last three days, and also leaving the noble earl riveted to the spot, and thus conof the purposes of his heart.“ What devil bath told thee versing with himself : this, old crone ?” said he; “or art thou one of the hell- “ "When you require my advice, I will come to you ish fraternity thyself, or a witch that skimmest through unsent for!' Confound me if ever I heard any thing like

fool you.

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