prevailed on to enter into the designs of her brothers and having persuaded him to reveal his secret to her, he shewed her that he had a belt which when he wore it round his waist, defended him from the power of lead or steel. In consequence of this information, she laid a plot with her brothers. And one day when she and her husband, and her three brothers were riding together, passing the point of Ardbeg, the wind was blowing very strong, and she contrived that it should appear very troublesome to her in blowing aside her petticoats. Her husband had adjusted them to her repeatedly, but still they would not lie; and she hinted that he might take off his magical belt and tie it round her knees. He was caught by the bait, and being now vulnerable, like other ordinary mortals, she gave her brothers a signal. and they shot him dead. He was buried on the spot, and a cairn was erected over him. The cairn remains to this day, close by the side of the road, as it crosses the burn at Ardbeg, between Rothesay and Port Bannatyne.

Having killed the Laird, they took possession of the lands. But to conceal their design, they took a boy who was the next heir of Wester Kames into their own house, and brought him up as if they intended he should succeed to the lands. When he was a stripling, however, he died, it was supposed in consequence of poison, which they had admiSo they retained the lands of Wester Kames permamently.

nistered to him.

Old Robert Spens, the relater of this narrative, says he is descended of the Wester Kames family, his ancestor having been a younger son of one of the Lairds; and he himself is the fifth generation from the castle. His fathers all, from the castle, inhabited the same butt: they paid two pounds a year for it; but he before he left it, paid £18 to Lord Bannatyne.

THE PARTING.

O sad is the bitter hour of parting

With the friend of our heart, or the maid of our soul;

The burning tears to the eye ready starting,

Scald the pale cheek as adown it they roll;

Convulsive the bosom heaves,

While the heart's blood is welling:

Hope for a season leaves

Her evergreen dwelling.

Who hath not felt the pang

Of quitting life's early scenes?
The grove where the mavis sang,
The hill with its thousand streams?

The deep glen we loved to seek,

When Evening's sun was shining,

Tinging with gold the cottage reck,

Are left with regret,-thought of with repining.

All the sweet haunts of our earlier years,

That we joyed in frequenting;

Nay, even the spot where our childish tears
And sighs were ever venting,

Are left with pain and sorrow,

Are left with a red and tearful eye, As if no hope would cheer the morrow, As if no bliss would light futurity.

But oh! when the parting comes
With the maid we adore,

Grief all the soul benumbs,
Life is no more.

Shall I e'er forget her look

At the time we did sever?

And the tremulous hold of this hand she took?

Never-oh, never!

Sorrows there are in ample store,

To man in this gloomy vale,

Ere he shall sleep for ever more,
And with the worms regale.

But there is not a sorrow can equal this,

There is not a joy so bitterly sweet,

As to say farewell-to snatch a kiss,

From her with whom we never more shall meet!
M.

TO ISABELLE.

What binds me to this spot-what secret charm

Twines round my heart—and oh! what powerful spell

Hath witched all my soul?-Why does alarm
Thrill thro' my bosom at the passing bell
That summons me away ?-'Tis not the sea,
With all its vessels gliding to and fro

O'er its blue surface, holding merrily

Their swift and joyous course-ah, no!

Sure 'tis a lovely sight; but 1 have been

Where scenes more brilliant rose to glad the eye,

Than these dark waters, and yon pure bright sky;
For them I felt no pang, nor yet one keen
Sensation wrung my heart, to breathe farewell—

Alas! the charm that roots me here, is thee, my ISABELLE!
M.

TO NIGHT.

O sweetly smiles the silver lamp of night,

Between the boughs of yon tall

sycamore,

That waves its dark and mighty branches o'er
The little stream that winds its timid flight
Across the flowery lawn.-Oft at the time
Of lonely midnight I have sat the while
Beside its aged roots, to hear the chime

Of the first hour-that hour of dread, and smile
At my own fears, as it came sighing past
Like the last words of an expiring soul,

With melancholy moan upon the morning blast;
What awful thoughts then o'er my bosom stole,
What reveries of most intense delight

Charmed all my youthful heart?—I love thee, sable night!
M.

OBSERVATIONS ON THE MANNERS OF MANKIND.

Kingdoms or nations have been compared to individuals. The comparison is beautifully just; and it were to be wished that the virtues of a nation could be as easily brought into action as those

progress

of an individual. But imperfection hangs on all our actions when in a combination. The miserable devastations of war, great and extended beyond all computation, have unquestionably retarded the fair of mankind in goodness and wisdom. To the frequency of war, more than half the crimes of mankind are to be attributed and the wickedness of war being handed down from generation to generation, receives certain modifications in its progress, and if it does not become a fixed system, is at least looked upon as a matter of necessity, and, therefore, viewed with indifference.

It is much to be regretted, that the wisdom and goodness of the world has not kept pace with its age. If, as we are taught to believe, much will be expected of them to whom much is given, we cannot hear this repeated, and present the undaunted front of innocence. So much wisdom and experience, such copious supplies from history, precept, and example, and so little apparent advantage taken, afford matter of serious reflection. To the excellence of our polished manners we cannot lay claim; they are none of ours; they have been of old time. To the invention of our splendid follies and our low cunning, our fashionable etiquette and our petty frauds, we have yet a more feeble pretence; for they too derive their origin from nations once as polished, as flourishing, as renowned as we..

From a perusal of the Greek and Roman authors, we may be asured, that there existed in the world,