the contrary, I fell into a heavy slumber | don't you bother about Witcherleyas the morning broke, and slept late and Missus, you're wanted!-I've enow on long, undisturbed by the early sounds of my own hands." rustical awakening. When I roused myself at last, it was ten o'clock-a pale, wet, melancholy morning, the very ghost and shadow of the more dismal night.

It was impossible to bear this tantalizing bewilderment. I took my hat, and rushed out, equally indifferent to train and breakfast. The same bumpkins stood still loitering in the high road, in the rain; and, scared and awe-stricken as they seemed, were still able to divert the main subject of their slow thoughts, with some dull ob

Saying which Giles fled, and left me unanswered and unsatisfied. Turning to his wife, who appeared immediately with my breakfast, I found her equally impracticaI can not tell whether the story of the ble. She, poor woman, seemed able for evening was the first thing which occur- nothing but to wring her hands, wipe her red to my mind when I awoke. Indeed, eyes with an apron, and answer to my I rather think not, but that a more every- eager inquiries: "Don't you medále in it day and familiar apprehension, the dread-don't you then! O Lord! it's Witcherof once more losing the train, was the ley ways." earliest thought which occupied me, despite all the horrors of the night. But my mind immediately rebounded with excitement and eagerness into the former channel, when I looked out from my window. Immediately under it, in the pale drizzle of rain, stood the Squire's son, dressed as his father had been, in a blue coat with gilt buttons, but new, and of the latest fash-servation of myself, as I rushed past. ion, and with a white favor on the breast. His face was flushed with rude half-concealed exultation; his manner seemed arrogant and authoritative, but still he had not lost the down-looking, sullen, resentful shame of the previous night. He was putting money in the hand of Giles, who stood by with a scowl upon his face, and touched his hat with a still more sullen unwillingness. Several other men, a heaving little rustic crowd, lingered around eyeing the young man askance with looks of scared and unfriendly curiosity. "Let them drink our health, and see that the bells are rung." I heard only these words distinctly, and the young Squire strode away towards the manor-house. When he was out of sight, my phlegmatic landlord threw his money vehemently on the ground with an expression of disgust, and shook his clenched hand after the disappearing figure; but thinking better of it by and by, and relenting towards the honest coin, picked it up deliberately, piece by piece, and hastily disappeared within the house. My toilette did not occupy me much after this incident, and as soon as I had hastily completed it, I hurried down stairs. Giles was in the passage, giving directions, intermixed with a low growl of half-spoken curses. When he saw me, he suddenly stopped, and retreated within his little bar. I followed him anxiously. "What has happened?-what of the Squire ?"

I did not pause, however, to ask any fruit-
less questions of this mazed chorus of spec-
tators, but hurried along the road to the
little postern-gate. To my surprise, I found
the great gates open, and another little
circle of bystanders, children and women,
standing by. I hastened up the dark ave-
nue,when the rain pattered and the leaves
rustled in the pallid daylight, as they had
done in the blank night. Every thing re-
mained exactly as it was yesterday, when
I passed up this same tortuous road with
the Squire. I rushed on with growing
excitement, unable to restrain myself.
The hall-door stood slightly ajar. I push-
ed it open, and entered with a hasty
step, which echoed upon the paved hall as
though the house were vacant. Roused
from a corner by the sound, Joseph rose
and came forward to meet me.
The poor
fellow looked very grave and solemn, and
had been sitting in forlorn solitude, reading
in this chilly uninhabited hall. But at
sight of me the cautiousness of suspicion
seemed to inspire Joseph. He quickened
his pace, and came forward resolutely,
keeping himself between me and the din-
ing-room door.

"I want to see your master-your master-beg him to see me for a moment; I will not detain him," said I.

"My master ?" Joseph paused and looked at me earnestly, as if to ascertain how much or how little I knew.

"The Squire ?-it's none o' my business "My master, sir, was married this morn-nor yours neither. Mind your break-ing. I couldn't make so bold as to disturb fast and your train, young gentleman, and him; perhaps you could call another day."

"Married! Now, Joseph," said I, try-yet casting looks of horror at the vacant ing what an appeal would do, "you know elbow-chair. "I'll go, sir-I'll go—I'll it is in vain to attempt deceiving me; your call my master," he said, with a cracked, master's son is married, but I do not want unsteady voice; and he went out of the him I want to see the old Squire." room, not daring, as I fancied, to turn his back upon the ghostly empty seat. I, in my excitement, paced up and down the room, with all my private sense of wrong and horror, and all my public sentiment of justice, giving authority to my step. It did not occur to me that I had no right to enter another man's house after this fashion, or that I ran any risk in doing so. I was excited beyond the reach of all personal consideration. I thought of nothing but the old Squire; here only last night I had sat at his table, joined him in conversation, and listened to his story, and where-where-ghastly confirmation to that tale of horror-where was he now?

"There's no old Squire, sir," said Joseph, with a husky voice; "there ain't. I tell you true; you're dreaming. My master's a young gentleman, and married this morning. It's no good coming here," cried the old servant, growing excited, "to make trouble, and disturb a quiet house. My master's a young gentleman -younger than yourself; there can be but one Squire."

66

Joseph, what do you mean?" cried I. "Do you forget what I saw and hearddo you forget that I was here and dined with your old master last night? Where is he? What have you done with him? I'll rouse the country. I'll have you all indicted for murder, every soul in the house. Where is the old Squire ?"

He laid his hand upon my shoulder fiercely, trembling himself, however, as he did so, with the tremor of weakness. "Will you hold your tongue-will you be quiet-will you leave this house ?"

"No," cried I, raising my voice, and shaking the old man off-" No, I'll ascertain the truth before I move a step. I will not leave the house. Here, go call your new master; I'll wait for him where I sate with his father yesterday. His father, poor old man, what have you done with him? I will not move a step till I search this mystery out."

I had heard Joseph's step, timid and yet hasty, shuffle up the great echoing staircase; but as I stood still to listen, now the silence crept and stagnated around me without a human sound to break it. Nothing but the rain outside, the wet leaves against the window, not even the familiar pulse of a clock to soften the painful stillness. My thoughts were of the blackest. I concluded no better than that murder, cowardly and base, was in this house, which I, alone and unsupported, had come to beard, accuse, and defy in its own stronghold. But fired with excitement, I feared nothing-thought of nothing but a possible spectacle of horror concealed within one of these unknown rooms, and of the question perpetually on my lips, where is the Squire?

I pushed my way as I spoke into the dining-room, Joseph following and opposing me feebly. The appearance of the silent untenanted room moved me with a new and mysterious thrill of horror. There it lay unaltered, undisturbed, in the very same formal arrangement as when I left it last night; the portraits looking darkly from the walls, the tender limeleaves flickering round the oriel, the long vacant dining-table shining dully in the subdued light. Every chair stood as it had stood yesterday-the very newspaper lay upon the table. But where was the-now it creaks upon its hinges-nowold Squire?

At length, as I listened, a foot sounded upon the stair, heavy, sometimes rapid, sometimes hesitating, the true step of guilt. I felt assured it was the son, the parricide! My heart beat with choking rapidity, a cold dew rose upon my forehead, and I turned to the door to face the new-comer with the fervor and zeal of an avenger. Now for the solution of this horrible mystery! And now a suspicious uncertain hand tries the door doubtfully

I turned round upon Joseph suddenly. "He sat there, just there, last night. You are as conscious of it as I am. I want to know where he is now."

My dearest friend! you can not be half or a hundredth part so much disappointed as I was; for as the door creaked, and the guilty step advanced, and my heart beat with wild expectation, I awoke

A kind of hysteric sob of terror escaped I am ashamed to confess the humiliating from the old servant's breast. He retreat-truth-awoke to find myself in my own ed hastily, covering his eyes with his hand, crimson easy-chair, after dinner, with the VOL. XL-NO. III.

26

From Fraser's Magazine.

inn you may have thoroughly tasted and made your own the sweet, sad beauty of that enchanting scene. I think it is Mr. Ruskin who says that Walter Scott's is the saddest" poetry he knows. This is a paradox, but it contains some truth; and the reason, I believe, is, that the country which Scott describes, though of an exquisite is of a rather sorrowful beauty. "Was never scene so sad and fair," is the feeling, I think, of all right-minded tourists in regard not only to moonlit Melrose but to all that can be called beautiful in Scottish landscape.

in Scotland you should travel slowly-you | the grace of its serene repose. Wander may see some of the choicest treasures of on, I say, and let twilight still find you that northern Paradise, Perthshire. Be- there; so that when you return to your take yourself, then, to the Euston-square or to the King's-cross station-I would say rather to the former; for though the Great Northern line will show you York, and between Newcastle and Edinburgh" will whisk you along by the side of the blue German Ocean over a country of rare though gentle beauty, and full of the poetry of the old Border days, yet by the North-Western and Caledonian lines you will pass the English Lake district; and to see that, even from the railway, is a great privilege. Look well at that group of mountains-they are on your left soon after you pass Lancaster-and yield to But you are off next morning by their soothing and purifying influence, as steamer up the lake; and the morning the distant shadows float over their calm view, as you twist about among the thirty purple sides; and if when you left London islands, and see the light dancing in there was any wild passion stirring at diamond showers on the blue laughing your heart, the chances are it will leave waves, and watch the cloud-shadows floatyou here. After threading the desolate ing over the mountain sides as they simbeauty of the sheep-pastured Border hills, mer in the hot mist of the glowing noonwith their lonely glens and wonderful tide sun, has scarce a shade of melancholy grace of undulating line, (I know no in it. And now you are at Rowardennen, curves" like these,) we will suppose you about half-way up the lake, at the very arrived at Glasgow. Well, stay there as foot of the majestic Ben. Here is the short a time as you can, and then direct favorite place for ascending him; and if it your course-it is a matter of two or is a fine, clear day, you had better go three hours now-to Balloch, at the south-straight to the inn, put your wife (if she ern end of Loch Lomond. Put up at the inn there for the night, and stroll for the rest of the afternoon along the lake, keeping as close to the water as you can, for there you will get the best views-far better than from the deck of the steamer. What a calm, gentle, melancholy lake it is -from the little bay that comes rippling up with a quiet plaffing sound-so quiet as to be unheard at first-against the strip of silver sand that binds the oaken thickets through which you wind your way, to the expanse of blue water seen as you double some headland, with that long island in front shaped something like a beautiful human foot, and almost bare of foliage, but covered with a soft velvety turf; and farther up the lake the slopes of numberless heath-clad hills coming gradually down to the water's edge; and on the right Ben Lomond with his double summit, clothed with mossy verdure to the very top; and he also, proud as he is, sloping gradually down, for the lake is here (as I have said) a quiet, melancholy lake, and will suffer no sharp contrasts-no abrupt embraces of intrusive mountains-to ruffle

is with you, as of course she is, and I ought to have mentioned her before) on one of the lumbering ponies kept there for the purpose, and start at once for the summit. It is before you the whole way, and beckons you on over rock and sward, over moss and moor, as you slowly climb your long, but not toilsome, and infinitely beautiful road. Throughout there is neither difficulty nor danger. Winding at first among gray rocks fringed with purple heath and bedded in waving fern, over gigantic knolls looking down into deep grassy glades, in which here and there a rill glides stealthily down its rocky bed curtained with dwarf birch and alder

then out on a wide moorland—and then the path becomes steeper, and you are really working your way up a good honest mountain side. And now-look back. What a change since half an hour ago! Far down beneath those heathery rocks and grassy knolls lies the laughing lake, at least half of its thirty miles in length spread out before you, dotted with islands of every variety of shape and size; and beyond the hills on the further shore,

can track his wanderings through many a
mile of sunny plain. But you do not fol-
low him far, for a little beyond him, and
right opposite to you among those heath-

and desolate beauty, and for the silvery
blue of its water. Not a tree to be seen
on its banks; but it is of an exquisite,
though simple workmanship, and girt with
a never-failing strip of the whitest sand.
Its name? To your astonishment, Loch
Katrine. But where, then, are the Tro-
sachs? where the maze of birch and hea-
ther-the haunts of the
"wild rose,
eglantine, and broom"? Hidden, all hid-
den, by that bold, sweeping side of the
merciless Benvenue; and what you see is
in fact only that which (second-rate) artists
would call the "uninteresting" part of
Loch Katrine. And now when you look
closely, just where the mountain outline
cuts across the lake, you can discern what
seems a thick brushwood creeping up the
steep sides of the opposite shore; and that
is just enough to give you an idea that
trees may grow there, but not of the wil-
derness of sylvan beauty that lies hidden
from your gaze. Southward are other
lakes, and one of special attractions, deep
buried in close clustering woods, the re-

which seemed, when you were on level ground, to form its only framework, strange mountain-forms have started up, and made a triple barrier; and, peeping out behind them, here and there, grotesque-ery hills, lies a lake notable for its calm looking shapes, the heads and shoulders of unknown mountains, yet beyond. Higher yet, and suddenly the view on the other side of the Ben opens before you-lakes, mountains, a far-winding river, and a boundless plain. Now you are engrossed with the greater steepness of the ascent, and in your anxiety to reach the top you get but a general idea of the increasing glories of the landscape. One more short pull at an angle of 45°, and you are on the summit. Now, if you were an ordinary tourist, your first proceeding would probably be to give what is called a "hearty British cheer," and your next a pull at the brandy-flask; but as you are not, and as you have had a light luncheon half-way up the mountain, at a spring of the purest water in Scotland, you do no such thing; but, throwing yourself on the grass, you give yourself up for a few minutes to that delight so rarely felt by man-the profound, awful, yet most soothing silencethe peace of peace-the rest of rest-the "sabbath of the mountain-top!" And now by degrees you begin to analyze the won-flections of which in the water are clearly derful panorama at your feet. To the north, the view is of a strange and awful beauty. Beginning almost from where you stand, and stretching far away, some fifty miles as the crow flies, a dark expanse of tumbling waves-yes, waves; but the sea is petrified, and every billow is a mountain crest. The effect upon the mind is indescribable. In the whole space between you and Ben Nevis, whose snowy summit (the only snow you see) is faintly visible in the utmost distance, not an inch of flat ground-not the faintest indication or semblance of a valley; but far as the eye can reach, the whole wide landscape is one dark, stern, motionless multitude of thickly-congregated summits. Look till your vision becomes bewildered in that inextricable maze of mountain majesty, and your brain somewhat troubled with the wild fantasies of that wondrous scene; and then turn to the eastward, and refresh yourself with the full delight of the contrast. Here, and to the south, all is soft, smiling, and serene. You are standing at the edge of a sheer precipice of some two thousand feet, and peeping over it, you see the infant Forth rising just below, and

seen, even at this distance. That is "Loch Ard"-"far Loch Ard and Aberfoyle," where the stag, at gaze on the crest of Uam-Var, first "pondered refuge." These lakes are guarded round by beautiful but scattered mountain-forms; and this is the country traversed, in the Lady of the Lake, by young Angus with the Fiery Cross, when

"Ben Ledi saw the cross of fire;

It glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire;"

Strath-Ire, there before you, over the hills beyond Loch Katrine; and Ben Ledi, that proud soaring summit which dominates all the country round. More to the south, the mountains cease, and a wide, rich plain melts off into hazy distance and possible Edinburgh. We have said nothing yet of the view to the west, with Loch Lomond for foreground, and mountains as strange but not so close-lying as those to the north, leading the eye over them till it rests upon a streak of silver sea, and you find that the further mountains are islands; and beyond them in the utmost distance an appearance which may or may not be land,