which his impetuosity had dislodged from the wall, came fluttering down on all sides around him, and gave him the appearance of a melo-dramatic soldier bivouacking in a paper snow-storm.

"Pick yourself up, sir," said Raffleton, doing the severe with the only eye he had as yet found time to open, " pick yourself up this minute, sir, and take that clock away. It's drunk -beastly drunk."

Thomas rose slowly to order, picked up the calumniated timepiece with one hand, rubbed every part of his person which the books had not gone near with the other, and waited to take his cue for farther conduct from the continuation of his master's discourse.

"How dare you bring me such an infernally indiscriminative clock as that, sir ?" said Raffleton, opening the other eye. "Take it back the first thing on Monday morning, and tell Mr. Bobadil to send me a discriminative one instead."

"I'm afraid that sort of clock will be very expensive, sir," said Thomas. "Mr. Bobadil charges five shillings a-week for the hire of this, and this hasn't half such a long name. A Diswhat did you say, sir ?"

"A discriminative clock, sir," replied his master. "A clock that knows when a gentleman's been drunk, and when he's been sober, when he wants to get up, and when he wants to lie in bed."

"Very well, sir," said Thomas. "How do you feel this morning, sir? Uncommon pleasant you were last night, to be sure."

Here Thomas's nocturnal reminiscences became too much for him, and he accordingly forgot his sulkiness, took the privilege of an old servant, and went off into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

"Hold your tongue, sir, and answer my questions," said Raffleton." I am very well-of course-nothing to make me otherwise-drank very little-only a little excited by the company and the lights, and all that sort of thing. How-how did go to bed, Thomas ?"

I

"You didn't go at all, sir; we carried you."

"What do you mean by we, sir ?" said Raffleton. "Couldn't you do it yourself?"

"No, sir-too heavy for that. Me and the family, sir. Family got up on purpose. Mr. Walrus, Mrs. Walrus, and all the little Walruses, and the shop-boy,-there they were, all of them-"

"Witnesses of my disgrace," interrupted Raffleton. "Henceforth I am humiliated in the eyes of Mr. Walrus, the eyes of Mrs. Walrus, the eyes of the Masters Walrus, and the shopboy's eyes besides. I-I hope I didn't begin to make a fool of myself before them, Thomas ?"

"Make a fool of yourself, sir? Oh no-you was a ready

made one about two hours before that, if you'll excuse my saying so, sir," replied Thomas. "No-you didn't do anything very much out of the way then, I think. You made all the Master Walruses drink your health with three times three, to be sure, and I had to give them the hips;' and then you tried to make Mrs. Walrus smoke a cigar; and then you played at going mad, and bit the eldest Master Walrus in the arm, and a hole in the sofa-cushion; and after that, you wanted to sit up and play two-handed whist with the shop-boy; and then Mr. Walrus interfered."

"Yes," said Raffleton, "yes-Go on. I—I didn't insult Mr. W. by chance, did I ?"

"Not by no manner of means, sir. Quite the contrary. You kissed him."

"The devil!" shouted Raffleton, jumping slap out of bed with horror at the very idea. "Kissed him! Good heavens ! I owe him three weeks' rent."

"Yes, you kissed him," persisted Thomas. "And then you said he was a love, and he would be a hangel, if it wasn't for his whiskers. And after that you got quite helpless; and then we undressed you, and put you to bed. Oh dear !-uncommon pleasant you were sir, really." Here Thomas went off again. "And were the other gentlemen pleasant, Thomas ?" inquired his master.

"Very pleasant indeed, sir," said Thomas, recovering. "Was the Earl of May pleasant, Thomas ?"

"Yes, sir."

"And how was Lord Wynyard, Thomas? Was he pleasant

too ?"

"Yes, sir-all pleasant-all very pleasant.

"Then it doesn't so much matter," said Raffleton, brightening up suddenly. "If the Earl of May and Lord Wynyard were pleasant, it's all right. I shall get up. I never felt better my life."

in

"But the pleasantest gentleman of the lot by far, to my mind at least," continued Thomas," was Mr. Burnaby Birch; and if he's only half as amusing at nine o'clock on Monday, when you gentlemen call on him, why he'll be enough to make a Quaker's coat collar shake itself out of its shirt with laughing-that's all." "The Reverend Burnaby Birch," said Raffleton, with the air of a man who has arrived at some important and incontrovertible conclusion, "The Reverend Burnaby Birch is a beast. That man is my-my evil genius-evil without the genius, perhaps I should say. There is no avoiding him. Give me my trowsers, -and some soda-water, Thomas. I shall go to chapel, by way of a change, now I am up; and after breakfast I must go and see what has become of poor Pichantosch and Liefbiwitz. Tell Willett I shan't want him to-day."

With these words, our corpulent friend buttoned himself with

some difficulty into a pair of cloth boots; and having playfully shot the corks of three soda-water bottles into the face of his domestic, and their contents down his own throat, he proceeded to relieve the labours of the toilet by whistling and scolding Thomas alternately; which mode of amusement having at length grown wearisome, subsided, on the exit of the last-mentioned individual, into a most inarticulate enunciation of half an "Article," and a confused blending together of Deluges and Creations, Prophets and Evangelists, in one monotonous and protracted hum.

INVITATION TO AN EVENING WALK.

"There is hardly anything gives me a more sensible delight than the enjoyment of a cool still evening, after the uneasiness of a hot sultry day.

COME up the hill, to meet the moon-
She 'll leave her daylight slumber soon,
And over mountain, over dale,
Weep her dewy lustre pale!

Come up the hill, and hear the flowers

Rustling in their heathy bowers;

Closing some, with close of day,

Waking more to moonlight ray!

Come up the hill, and list the breeze,
Full of mingled melodies,
Rising from the glens below,

Faintly sweet, as up we go!

Come up the hill, and smell the breath
Of the purple mountain-heath,

Sweeter than the painted flowers

Rear'd in artificial bowers!

Come up the hill, and joy with me,

In the mazy scenery

That below is sleeping calm,

Smiling beauty, breathing balm!

Come up the hill, and gaze with me
On the moon-besilver'd sea,
That so gently rocking moves
To cradle the young light it loves!
Come up the hill,-'tis nearer to
The fields of Heav'n, azure blue,
Where the spheral minstrels play
Music wild and sweet, for aye!

Come up the hill,-'t will give to thee
A view of deep eternity,

That in the valley's shorten'd ken
Is never known to minds of men!

Come up the hill-the waterfall
Is emblem, true to thee, of all:

Spectator, No. 425.

T is tranquil where it flows near Heaven-
'Tis down, with Man,-its peace is riven!

W.

LEGENDS OF THE LOCHS AND GLENS.

Communicated by the Author of "The Subaltern.”

NO. I. THE LINN OF THE CALDRON.

Would that this treason were not, or not I

The detector.

SHAKSPEARE.

THERE is perhaps no quarter of Scotland which more abounds in the lore of national tradition than the beautiful glen which lends a local habitation and a name to the subject of this simple history. It lies on the outskirts of the largest and loveliest of the northern counties, just where the hills first rise above the fertile valley of the Forth; and where the small but beautiful straths that meander in every possible direction among the scarcely separated bases of the mountain range, still display, here and there, a sunny corn-field or an emerald meadow, which whispers faintly of the rich carse beyond. Strathone is one of the fairest valleys on the eastern side of the Grampians, and though smaller than the general extent of flat ground upon the Lowland side, and far less favourably situated for convenience of access or communication, few, if any, of the glens of Perthshire are comparable to it in natural beauty, climate, or situation.

Loch Boyochd (strange! that so fair a thing should bide so rough a title) occupies about three Highland miles of extent, yet from the peculiarity of its bent, winding as it does round the giant promontory of Skian Var, there is but one-half of the water visible from the entrance of Strathone. The jutting mountains, indeed, close so completely in appearance over its lower half, that the traveller will scarcely guess there is a wider and larger portion of the vale yet unrevealed, and so lets his eye rest lovingly on the little cluster of cottars' houses, which seem the only occupants of the strath. But, in arriving at this conclusion, he will much deceive himself. Beauties as rare, glories not less magnificent than any which have yet delighted him, lie on the farther side of that skreen; and on some other occasion, though not now, due notice may be taken of them.

We have alluded to Skian Var. It is a noble crag, which lifts its huge head far into the sky, and stretches its giant arm so boldly across the lake, that beneath its shelter the breezes rarely come, and the waters lie, for the most part, in waveless sullenness. Yet is there a portion of these same waters even more striking than the rest-so striking, that though he may be ignorant of the tales that attach to it, we defy the stranger to pass it by unnoticed. It is the pool with which our present tradition is connected the Linn of the Caldron, as it is called; of which, by attending to the following marks, the curious may take cognizance:-Nearly opposite to Skian Var, where the uneven and precipitous banks of the loch approximate, there is a small bay, or hollow, in the shore, into which the waters seem to withdraw that they may avoid the rapid current of the narrow passage. In the centre of that bay is the Linn of the Caldron. It is a round pool, dark, deep, and entirely motionless; the pale, pure, spiritual flowers of the water-lily, which thrive everywhere upon, and stud the margin of, Loch Boyochd, grow in singular beauty on

the edges of that linn, and throw a fair and melancholy radiance over the nook in which it shelters; but on the bosom of the pool itself not a leaf or flower was ever known to float. The circular basin of black still water, seems, in reality, spell-bound; for not one of the weeds which cover the entire surface of the waters near, ever makes its way within that enchanted circle.

According to the legend of the Linn, the goblin of the loch, once a mortal man, sold his being to the Evil One for a pot of broad gold pieces, which lost their value in his eyes as soon as the change came over his human nature. Jealous of the happiness of the simple cottars of Strathone, the spirit resolved within his bitter heart that the base-born avarice that took his own soul captive should be from generation to generation a snare to those who were once his fellows. He sank the caldron of gold in a black pool of Loch Boyochd, crossed two naked swords upon its mouth, and spread abroad the fame of his unholy deposit among the denizens of the glen. The accompanying prophecy was this :-If the treasure should be discovered by numbers, its wealth would turn to fairy gold; if by one alone, each sword would do its work of doom, yet the discoverer would die in wealth and honour. The date of the prophecy is long worn out, but its authenticity is a matter undisputed by the most enlightened among the natives of Strathone, and seeing that a thousand strange tales depend upon it, which, if they serve no other purpose, at least bear testimony to the romantic and imaginative character of the people, I am tempted to give as an illustration of the legend itself, one somewhat more probable in its details than the rest. Here it is:

arena

Half way between the extremities of Loch Boyochd, just where the headland of Skian Var almost cleaves the lake in two, stand the ruins of an old house, called by the natives in their rude dialect Imer Veolan, or, the "Mill Ledge." The name is not inappropriate to the object of it; for there dashes down the hills just at that point a torrent, near the mouth of which may still be seen the relics of some primitive production of art. Indeed the whole of the little area is a beautiful dove's nest, which clings to the only nook of ground in that quarter which could afford footing for a domicile as lowly even as the Mill Ledge. A tall group of black pines shelters it from behind, a swelling brae slopes down to the margin of the loch in front, while the hills rising bold and sheer on every side, render it the central point in an of surpassing beauty. The last occupant of that picturesque domicile, of which nothing now remains but "breckan green and cold grey stone," was Donald Bane, the stout miller of the strath, a wight possessed of all the requisites and perquisites of his vocation, including the only child, that "miller's maid," which seems the prerogative of the craft. A sweet young thing was the miller's daughter, motherless and brotherless, and almost friendless; for though few in the lonely glen but would have nourished and cherished the gentle Annie as their own, yet there was about the pensive maiden of Imer Veolan a sort of fearful timidity-a silent, shrinking, retiring temperament, that cut off every avenue of familiar intercourse with the ruder spirits of the valley, and rendered her, with her small slight figure, pale cheeks, and starry eyes, an object rather of compassionate and somewhat reverential interest, than of intimate companionship.