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
Painted bright between twa trees.

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.
The rushing wind roars not, but mild and soft
As the sweet kisses of a maiden's love,
Come the young breezes from the spicy south.
Yonder the sombre forest, towering high,
Rises in all the majesty of strength
Like armed giants, standing in array
For battle; on the horizon's extreme verge
The silver lake is sleeping in the blue
Of star-lit heaven;-its willow fringed banks
How full of beauty!—and exhaling comes
Ambrosial fragrance from the buds of flowers.

Ye brilliant stars! ye seeming isles of light
In the lake mirrored round me, and above
Sparkling unnumbered, what and whence are ye?
Can ye be worlds like this, blighted, and sick
With sin and sorrow?-No-ye look too fair;
I will not think you such; but rather deem
Ye are the resting places of the dead,

Who, disembodied, on the wings of faith,
Win their fair passage to your unknown isles.
The more intent I gaze, the thicker come
Those rising worlds of light, till all the deep
Infinitude of space is sparkling bright
With mystic fires-oh! I could almost bend
Before and worship, were it not that He
Who made ye must be far more glorious still
And worthier far my worship.

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.