tials. The readers of Lockhart will remember, perhaps, the two lank yankees who made themselves so much "at home" with Mrs. Scott, while Sir W. was on an excursion. When he returned with his party, they were kindly received by him, but on application for their notes of introduction, lo! they had none! and Sir Walter very delicately hinted to them, that as it was near dinner time, if they meant to walk on to Melrose he should not trespass further on their time. He bowed them to the door, and, on re-entering his parlor, he laughed heartily. "If we are to take in all the world, we had better put up a sign-post at once Porter, ale and British spirits He relented somewhat afterwards, and said to his wife, "Hang the Yahoos! Charlotte, but we should have bid them stay to dinner." "Nae, nae," cried one of his guests, "they were One asked Madame if she meant quite in a mistake I could see. to call her house Tillietudlem, and the other, when Maida laid his nose against the window, exclaimed Pro-di-gi-ous !” 'Well, well, skipper!" was the reply, "for a' that the loons would have been none the waurse for their kail" (cabbage). After I had finished the interior curiosities, I walked about the silent grounds, and had a chat with old Peter Mathiason, who still lives on the Tweed-side. I got from him a few mementos of the spot and departed with a saddened heart. As I rode up the long avenue that leads from the deserted court to the gateway, my mind ran back instinctively to the time when that strong man, bowed down with sorrow and broken by infirmities, was carried into these halls-an image of living death-and taking a last look at his hills and dales which he had bought with the price of his own best energies, he laid him down to die. Those last hours were but sorrowful records of pain, anxiety and delirium. His last words we can never forget. "Lockhart! be a good man-be virtuous-be religious-be a good man-nothing else will give you any comfort when you come to lie here." HOUR OF CONTEMPLATION. BY JOSEPH H. BUTLER. Author of Wild Flowers of Poesy," &c. Now is the hour for contemplation-hark! The village bell strikes twelve-all-all-is still. Ye brilliant stars! ye seeming isles of light Who, disembodied, on the wings of faith, Dust they are On the high foot-path of the Eternal One!! Oh! when the turmoil of this life is past, And, I might choose my lowly resting place, Let it be by the lake, where willows droop About my simple grave; let the wild flowers Of early spring peep forth, and singing birds Dwell in the branches of the waving trees, And warble anthems o'er my lowly bed. |