dark that they could not see their way before them; and they not unfrequently stumbled over some stones, or came in contact with some shattered wall, to the great detriment of their skulls.

They soon, however, got to the open air. The old woman then gave them directions for their journey, and was at length departing, when the Scots, overwhelmed with gratitude, earnestly implored her to leave her unworthy master, and go along with them to their townland. But she would not listen to their proposal; "Urge me not," she said: consider, my sons, it may so happen, that some unfortunate prisoners, like yourselves, may fall under my master's power, and will doubtless perish, if I leave this place, and can't afford them my aid. Cease, then, your request, and proceed on your journey, and may God speed you!" She then re-entered the ruins, and our adventurers proceeded on their solitary way. When the morn was ushered in, Sir Jaspar de Glendearn left his couch to take a walk, to cool his feverish nerves from the night's de

bauch. He happened to go through the passage that led to the dungeon; but the first object that struck his sight was the centinel extended on the ground, buried in a profound sleep, while the door of the cell was a-jar, and the birds flown. His first emotion was that of astonishment, which at length proceeded to ungovernable rage. Not doubting that the carelessness of the centinel had aided the escape of the prisoners, he drew his dirk, and plunged it into the breast of his unconscious victim, muttering, at the same time, between his teeth, the most horrid imprecations. He then ordered the alarm-bell to be tolled, to arouse his people; and mounting his steed, at the head of his now-assembled troop, he rode with the greatest speed in pursuit of the fugitives, over hill and over dale, through bush, through briar;" but all in vain, for our two adventurers had by this time got to St. Waltham's Priory, and were offering at the altar of that holy Saint their pious prayers for their hair-breadth deliverance. April 12th, 1826.

FIFENSIS.

CORRICHOICH, or the Glen of Mist, is at the south-west extremity of Caithness, where that county is connected with Sutherland. It is singularly romantic, being shut out from the rest of the country by the lofty ridge of Scerabin on one side, and on the other by the hills of Maidenpap and Morven. Two beautiful streams, called Langwell and Berridale, wind through it in different directions, and fairly encircle the mountains, the latter of which form, as it were, the termination of one extremity of the vale, standing like giants, to prevent all passage in that direction. The bottom of the glen is mostly a black moss, covered with red heath, and here and there indented with patches of verdure, which afford nourishment to a few sheep; but towards the sides of the mountains it is much more fertile, and supports numerous flocks both of sheep and cattle. A few shepherds' cottages are scattered at almost viewless distance over the

valley; but the traces of human habitation form but an unimportant feature in this district, whose principal character is that of quiet and solitary grandeur. And this grandeur is rendered the more impressive, that it is retired from observation, and as yet unbroken by the feet of tourists and visitors-those personages who have contrived to rob from many of the wildest and sublimest scenes of Scotland the poetic halo of loneliness and desertion which formerly hung over them. Corrichoich is yet unstained by such publicity. The mountains still rear their heads in unbroken silence, and the sacredness of retirement has not been violated. It is a spot which those who wish to witness Nature in her wildest and most exalted mood should see, and which those who have once seen will not easily forget.

I remember well when I first visited this romantic glen. I was accompanied by a gentleman of the country, a very excellent and valued

her. The canker-worm of care, in the midst of her proudest triumphs, would have found its way to the heart; and she would have heard the voice of Conscience ever and anon whispering unutterable things. I could not wish this fair creature such a doom. I could not regret that Nature had made her estate thus lowly, and placed her so far away from the stir and bustle of human exertion. There let her remain; her home is in the wilderness, but it is a quiet and unambitious home. While others walk in palaces, she treads her humble cottage. While others listen to the music of venal tongues and instruments, she has the murmur of her mountain streams,she has the winds that sweep with majestic cadence through the glens, and the thunder bursting with solemn peal from the tops of her native hills. This is music, and to those who have souls attuned to the harmony of the universe, it is nobler and more impressive than any produced by harp or psaltery. And, lastly, while others worship the Deity in the pride of place and circumstance, and have no religion save in the "outer man," its very spirit floats divinely over her humble roof -consecrates with its presence the good deeds of those who dwell with in-waits upon them from the cradle -conducts them through life, and cheers them up at last in that dreadful conflict, when the soul and body bid each other a last adieu.

The day advanced, and we continued to ride onward. Our path lay to the cottage of an aged shepherd with whom we were acquainted, and who, some weeks before, had invited us to visit him. Eighty-five years had alreadyrolled over his head, and yet he was active and hale. He had passed the whole of that long period in the Glen of Mist, tending his flocks, rearing his family, and honouring his God. He informed us, that he had been an elder of the church for thirty-seven years, and we were assured, that during a much longer period he had never been absent from it a single Sabbath. "Heaven," he said, "had granted him health, and the least return he could make was by going at the proper and stated intervals to the house

of his Maker." I see the aged pilgrim yet before my eyes-his stately form slightly bent by years, and a few lyart locks still waving on his venerable forehead. His cottage lay in the bottom of the Glen, at its most retired and romantic extremity, and was sheltered by the high hill of Morven, which rose behind it. A single tree waved its ample foliage over the roof, and before the door flowed the beautiful rivulet of Berridale, in its way to encircle the mountains.

I anticipated much pleasure from visiting this aged man: he formed, as it were, a link between the last generation and the present; and he now lived in a species of patriarchal dignity, with his children and his children's children around him. To reach his dwelling we hastened the speed of our horses. We had not gone far, however, when a melancholy air, like that of the saddest pibroch, fell upon our ears. We knew not what it could mean. The sound seemed afar off, and came from some corner of the valley as yet invisible. We listened again, and it approached nearer. At first it was broken and indistinct, and the ear could only catch a few of the strange notes; the rest were dissipated by space before they could reach us, or borne away on the morning breeze. In a few minutes more, the strain was fuller, and resolved itself into a sad and plaintive melody. "That," said my friend," is the cronan of the dead. A funeral procession approaches." And his words were true, for, in turning the corner of a rock, we were saluted with a louder and more impressive tone, while upon our eyes burst a numerous convoy of mourners. The scene was singularly affecting. All the population of the Glen seemed to have been poured out to swell this procession. The old and the young walked in sympathy together. But where was he to whose house we were bound-he who for years had done the pastor's part, in saying the final prayer before the corpse was carried away, and who was never absent from performing the last duties to the dead? He was not there, but, in his stead, and in his place, walked Mr D- , the parish minis

ter. The truth burst upon us like lightning. His days had been numbered, and he was in the way of being carried to his final home. That home was in his native glen. He was not laid in the common cemetery appropriated for the dead; he had chosen the depths of the hills for his tomb-a spot consecrated, by containing the ashes of his father, and hallowed in the minds of the inhabitants by the most sacred associations. It was at the foot of Scerabin, in a small valley formed by a cleft of the mountains. The place was strangely wild-girded on cach side, save at the entrance, by stupendous rocks-covered at the bottom by a mossy verdure, and canopied above by the awful vault of heaven. We followed the procession to this romantic spot. As the mourners came nearer it, the music seemed to acquire more sublime pathos. The mountains caught up its tones, and gave them back in echo to the wilderness; while the spirit of a pervading sorrow floated around, rendering the aspect of every object more joyless and desolate. At length the coffin was dropped into the ground, and the earth flung reverently over it. Then arose the final strain of the coronach: it was sadder and louder than ever. The echoes of Morven and Scerabin responded in sympathy to its tones. From rock to rock, and from glen to glen, it arose, till it died in the distance. Fancy might deem that the spirit of the departed would fly away on the pinions of this sad strain, but long ere this it had gone to a better world; and when the grave was covered up, the minister pointed impressively to the spot, and said, "There lies a Christian, if there was

ever one."

Our visit to Corrichoich, instead of being one of pleasure, was thus clouded over with grief. We, however, received a friendly invitation to return to the house of the deceased, to refresh ourselves and our steeds. Most of those who had attended the funeral walked slowly away to their own homes, to reflect on the loss which had been sustained.

We, in company with the family, and a few particular friends of the patriarch, went to the cottage.

Sorrow sat on every face; but it was not like that which springs up when youth and beauty are hurried untimely away. It was a deep and a manly woe, but there were no overwhelming bursts of feeling-no outbreakings of the heart. The lot of the dead could not be said to be a hard one. He had grown grey in years: he had fulfilled his mission upon earth; and, fading away like all material things, he had in due season been gathered to his fathers. The chair, which for half a century he was wont to occupy, stood empty at the ingle-nook. His tartan plaid hung over it, and hard by was the staff which for so many days had supported his footsteps over his native hills. These objects gave rise to remembrances, but they were not unpleasant. They aroused no emotions of pity for departed strength or loveliness, nor awoke unavailing reflections on the cruel ruthlessness of death. What had happened was an expected event-all had looked for it; and when it did take place, however much the feelings might be melted, the judgment could not but regard it as a consummation of happiness to the aged and venerable

man.

We remained with the family, till twilight, descending upon the glen, told us it was time to depart. We bade them adieu, and rode homeward by the Strath of Langwell. The Sun was slowly declining. We saw his broad disk, like a ball of fire, sinking behind the distant hills of Sutherland, and throwing over the clouds which curtained the firmament the last beams of his decaying grandeur. A dim but sultry glare shone upon Corrichoich. The tops of the hills were robed in mist, but their black shoulders still stood forth in bold and stupendous relief. The tranquillity that brooded over the gloomy solitude was awful—not a breath disturbed it. The sea-mew, which occasionally winged its way thus far was still; and the raven's voice, and the bleating of the sheep, and the barking of the shepherds' dogs, we heard no more. We rode on in silence. It would have been cruel to break this strange and sad calm even by a whisper, and we uttered none. At length we passed

the spot where eight hours before the ancient shepherd had been buried. Was it fancy that gave rise to those wild notes? I know not; but at this moment the sound of the plaintive coronach seemed to come from a distance. It fell upon my ear as in the morning-then it approached nearer and nearer, and melted into a loud and subduing strain. I heard it dying away in echo among the mountains-then renewed by the musician-then again taken up by the rocks, and dissolved and aroused in interminable succession. Then I turned my eyes towards the place of Death, and saw arise from it the form of the dead. At first, tall, gigantic, and indistinct, he towered like a pillar of mist above the rocks; then, sinking down through the air, he stood upon his grave, acquired his living size, and

waved his paly hand-and, as he waved it, the coronach became louder and more melancholy, and its echoings among the hills more extensive. A dreamy indistinctness floated before my imagination, and I rode unconsciously on, meditating with a sort of undefined awe upon the vision. I still saw the phantom through the darkness: I still heard the music; and I knew not whether I was asleep or awake, when I heard the voice of my friend calling loudly upon me. This broke the enchantment. In a moment my wandering ideas were recalled, and the creations which fancy had so idly brought up vanished like a gossamer cloud before the sun. Instead of seeing strange sights, and hearing unearthly music, I found myself riding on in silence through the darkness of the Glen of Mist.

THIS is the creature's general character; let us contemplate some individual traits of it. He is the eldest son of another Writer to the Signet, the younger son of a country laird, or perhaps the grown-up brat of a rustic parson, whose quondam pupil and patron has enabled him to place his son in the chambers of a proud, overgrown agent, without payment of an apprentice fee. In his boyhood, the creature, in spite of the monstrous thickness of his skull, learned to decline penna, and to conjugate scribo; and penna and scribo, in their respective cases and tenses, comprised all that could be designated learning in the composition of the creature's mental constitution. With this stock of varied and profound erudition, the thing was sent to College, to learn two or three additional words of the Latin language, and, if possible, one or two of Greek. After spending two winter sessions at College, agreeably to the rules of that self-called enlightened corporation, to whose grasping privileges he aspires to be admitted, he finds, or at least it is taken for granted, that he has acquired, in addition to his

VOL. XVIII.

former learning, a tolerably complete knowledge of the verb rapio, signifying to arrest and plunder, with all its derivatives and compounds: it remains, however, a matter of doubt to himself, and to all others, whether he knows a single syllable, much less a word of Greek. A glimmer. ing recollection flits across his brain that the word ágyúgion, signifying money, once formed an item in his literary store. Thus, with a mind so amply furnished as actually to understand penna and scribo, with the substantial verb rapio, and having an evanescent remembrance of one Greek vocable, fortified, moreover, with a considerable stock of abominably-sounding Scotch words, which he has learned from his slovenly, illbred mother, and with half-a-dozen English words and phrases, which he has almost involuntarily picked up in the progres of his precious academical curriculum, the thing proceeds to the chambers of his future master. On his way thither, he meditates on his past and present condition, and, blockhead as he is, he cannot altogether throw aside conjectures as to the probabilities of 3 Y