Though the northern fairies are usually of the beneficent order, some of them are known to have committed very untoward actions. This mischief-maker Trilby is not the only instance. Various anecdotes are told, even of a bitter animosity among them; but I am loth to give them credit. Certain it is, that the wounding of cattle with elf-shots (one of which was shewn to me) is a sad proof of a spiteful disposition. Still it is advantageous to bestow on them this mixed character, as it partly supersedes the necessity of introducing goblins and witches, both which (out of Shakspeare) are the greatest pests of society. They tend to make the mind gloomy; and we have enough for that purpose among our realities. So they seem to think in the Highlands, where the people are naturally cheerful, and where the best rural sacrifice of Beltein, a May-day jollity, and the ceremonies in honour of their Druidical Apollo, Gruagach, or the fairhaired, are yet retained, not indeed in the spirit of Paganism, but as occasions of merriment : — while our London May-day sports are fallen into utter disrepute, even with chimney-sweepers. It is long "since the tall May-pole overlook'd the Strand."

The Highlanders lay claim to the invention of second-sight, for which they appear to have a patent, as no one ventures to practise it except themselves. But was not Apollonius Thyaneus one of the gifted, when he, while teaching in his school at Ephesus, beheld Domitian slain in his palace at Rome? And moreover, might not he be the inventor? This is a delicate question. Some are of opinion that the heathen philosopher had visited the court of Fingal in his travels, and there learnt the mysterious art; and this is the more probable, as he and Fingal were contemporaries. However that may be, secondsight is a creditable and a somewhat credible thing, or Dr. Johnson would not have returned from his tour declaring himself "willing to believe." So many well-attested accounts have already puzzled the world, that I shall add but one more to the number. A gentleman, they tell me, was waited on at sunset by the vision of a man without a head. It walked up to the parlour-fire, warmed its hands, and walked out again. Not being able to discover, from the trunk and limbs, which of his friends it could be whose decapitation was threatened, he remained in the most awful anxiety. For several evenings the figure repeated its appearance, till the gentleman, by closer scrutiny, perceived a mark behind the knee, (for the vision wore a kilt) which proved it to be no other than himself! In ordinary cases so horrible a discovery would have settled the business at once, without the assistance of a claymore. But he was resolute, scorned to be frightened to death, and held up his head boldly, till it was struck off by a party of Mac Gregors, in revenge for his having betrayed seven of their clansmen to the rage of the Colquhouns.

Ah! I have written thus far without a word about ghosts. Hath not the reader suspected an unwillingness on my part to reckon them among superstitions? The truth is, I have a lurking propensity that way, and see no impropriety in Mrs. Veal's calling upon her intimate acquaintance after her death. She comes with a double knock at the door like a gentlewoman, asks after the family, tells her errand, and

bids them good morning. I like the account almost as well as De Foe who wrote it. There is in my mind only one objection. She is de pié en cap in the fashion of the day; and though I gladly assent to the spiritual existence of a Mrs. Veal, I am confounded at the idea of a ghost of a silk gown, or of a laced cap, or the twin ones of a pair of kid gloves. This is a fault in nearly all such kind of tales. Not that I would have Mrs. Veal, or any other lady, or even any gentleman, make an indecorous apparition, pleading the impossibility of procuring spectral attire,-far be it from me, I wish for no such sights. An attempt has been lately made to raise a few ghosts in the Tower, but they did not thrive. The fact is, London is too confined; they want space, and, like the soul of King John, call out for "elbowroom.' Besides, they are not in the habit of appearing to more than one at a time; and how can that be done in a crowd? Yet, for all this, the Londoners have great faith in them, and are fond of swallowing them whole, as they come up fresh from the country. They have been known to feed with such avidity on these "airy nothings," that they have consumed the winter produce of three or four counties at a single meal. It is to be hoped they will feel grateful for the dish of insubstantials I am about to serve up, being as highly seasoned as if it had been cooked purposely for their palates. Ghost-stories are nearly all connected with robbery or murder,-mere Old-Bailey subjects. Now this originates in love, and, what is still better, it gives a sentiment to the passion, without which a love-tale is nothing but peppered water-gruel. Then again it touches on the doctrine of the formation of congenial souls, as taught by Plato,-no mean recommendation. As for its authenticity, if the reader will not take my word, he may go to Lochaber. So much it pleases me, that if I have not yet succeeded in proving the inferiority of London superstitions, (albeit, as I have shewn to their shame, they have a more numerous collection) I am content to rest my argument in favour of the Highlanders, solely upon the merits of this same ghost-story.

About fifty years ago, a farmer lived in Glen Speann, whose name was Mac Donald. It is shameful I should forget, not only his Christian name, but likewise the name of the farm, for every particular was delivered to me with scrupulous accuracy. He had a wife, three daughters, and three sons. This I perfectly recollect; for there was a dispute between the old lady and her son, while relating it to me, whether there were not four sons and three daughters, or four daughters and three sons, or three of each, and (I am happy to say) the last was finally agreed on by both parties. I love correctness. What signifies telling a story in the rough? It is like giving the index of a book instead of the text. The youngest of the family was a boy; he was the only one who had not been suckled at home, and, perhaps on that account, was not so great a favourite as the rest. Such dainties as farmers can, now and then, give to their children, were never bestowed on this poor boy. He was just turned of ten years when the supernatural events took place in the cottage; for, as the old lady observed, he was born at Lammas, and they began at the end of August. I am not sure but she said the after-half of August, and not

the end; which makes a little difference. This boy then,-for it is chiefly of and concerning him,-was all at once favoured beyond his brothers and sisters, not by his parents, but by some invisible agent. When his porridge was set before him, a lump of butter vanished from the family dish, and popped into his basin. If oat-cake was given him, a piece of cheese jumped out of the cupboard to keep it company. The worst slices of the meat were distributed to him in vain; they were instantly exchanged, and nobody knew how, for the tid-bits of the joint. Had he barley scones, they were immediately powdered with sugar. When they gave him water, it was turned into milk before it reached his lips. Did father or mother attempt to chastise him, they suffered for their temerity: the pot-lid would fly off, and the meat ran away up the lum-(Anglice the chimney); the churn failed in its office; the sheep fell into fits; the cows kicked over the milk-pails; and the roof of the cottage was sure to want repair on the following day. The farmer, wearied and tormented, resolved on quitting this haunted habitation, and went to another at a short distance; but his removal was ineffectual, for the same pranks constantly attended him. A schoolmaster of Baidnach, hearing of these strange matters, came to assure himself whether they were true or false. However, he was soon glad to run out of the cottage. Every thing he presumed to touch aimed a blow at his head. He was twice knocked down before he made three inquiries. "This was very odd, very odd, indeed-was it not, Sir?" so said my informant. The farmer again removed to the upper part of the Glen, above Keppoch; the very spot was pointed out to me. Still he could get no rest. The worst was, that owing to so many persons coming to witness these incomprehensible doings, he was well nigh eaten out of house and home. This state of things continued, from first to last, for seven long years. The boy, being then seventeen, got up one morning with a dream in his head about America. This dream was repeated till, morning after morning, there was nothing to be heard but his confounded talk about America. In a short while he expressed a desire to go to America; and at last, in spite of his father's intreaties to the contrary, to America he went. The night he quitted his home-it was in the month of November-as the farmer and his wife were seated together by the fire, they heard a voice, as from some person between them, say, "What will you give me?" They looked, but saw nothing but themselves. "What is it you would have?" exclaimed the farmer. And then the voice eagerly answered, "One of your children!" "Ah!" cried the father, "whoever thou art, I will not give thee one of them." "There! there!" the mother screamed out," there is a hen-we will give that hen- take it, and go away." The voice then laughed laughed prodigiously-and told them that he was perfectly indifferent to their consent, as, in fact, he could take what he chose. "But come thou, Mac Donald," it continued, "come to the outside of the door, and there thou shalt see as well as hear me!" The man was for some time afraid to accept the invitation; but his wife besought him to go, as obedience might put an end to their troubles, and he managed to pluck up courage. Away with your dirk!"

so.

"Throw the

cried the voice, and he threw it down immediately. gullie" (alias knife)" from your pocket!" cried the voice,-and he did "There is a pin in your kilt," cried the voice: "I cannot be seen by any one with a pointed weapon!"—and he obeyed in this particular as well as in the rest. Mac Donald went forth. There was a high wind, and the sky was heavily clouded, but light enough to distinguish objects, for it was at the time of a full moon. He first looked straight forward, and then turning sharp round to the right, beheld two figures, not quite resting their feet upon the ground, as if in contempt of the laws of gravitation. They were hand in hand. One was the ghost of a man whose name was Campbell, and the other the ghost of his daughter, a little girl, who died on the very day the supernatural events began in the cottage ;-as for Campbell, he died, as I am assured, some three months before her. The male apparition asked the farmer why he had not sent his boy away before, seeing that all his troubles were occasioned by him. "It was this my daughter," pursued he, "who constantly waited on him, served him with the best, chastised you for your cruelty, and, at last, whispered to him those dreams of America, while her spirit embraced him as he slept. For know her soul was originally formed to be wedded to his; and we learnt that he might chance to marry here, and be wretched, not meeting with his fellow-soul. To come to my daughter, he must die young and innocent; and, for that purpose, it was necessary he should go to a foreign land. Expect, ere long, to hear he has quitted the living!" And such, indeed, happened. News came from America that, on the first night of the boy's landing there, he died in his sleep.

WRITTEN IN A SMALL VOLUME, THE GIFT OF A

HERALD of Love-dear pledge of tenderness!
Affection's first, and therefore dearest token -
Remembrancer of one my life did bless—

Remembrancer of vows through years unbroken!
Dear little book, scorn not this tear-how vain!
Which on thy milk-white margin leaves a stain.
Unhallow'd hand shall never on thee rest,

Cold careless eye shall ne'er thy pages see;
Prized through past years, still cherish'd in my breast,
While my life lasts thou 'It my companion be.

Yet canst thou now, to me, no pleasure give,
The voice is hush'd that bade thy beauties live.

L.

S.

SOCIAL CONVERSE.

"AH, Madame!" said a French lady of rank, lamenting the memory of the celebrated Champfort, "j'ai perdu en lui mon meilleur causeur"-"I have lost in him my best talker.”—She spoke feelingly. Of the many voids daily occasioned by the frailty of life, that which is experienced by the ear is the deepest felt. Hearing is a domestic sense, on which the objects of home and friendship are strongly and unconsciously impressed. Sight is a more fickle, independent faculty, that can soon replace a lost object, or forget its image in the wide scope of variety. But the ear is more constant, and laments the absence of those sounds which had been familiar to it, with a freshness of sorrow that is always young. It is most open to association, and communicates with the heart so subtly and instantaneously, that it deserves more to be called a feeling than a sense.

Hence the loss of a man of conversation leaves the greatest chasm in society-the more so, as the easy and imperceptible way in which he bestows pleasure prevents his merit from being fully appreciated till it is missed. On looking over the sweet sad histories of regrets for departed friendship, we generally find that those have been very consolable who were held together by passion and the needs of mutual excitement; while the overpowering and irremediable sensation of grief has visited those who were connected by the mere habits of life and daily intercourse, more than by any tenderer tie. The former can seek elsewhere for their accustomed pleasures; but what can replace the loved peculiarities of the old friend, or counterfeit that husk voice, which an acquaintance of half a century has converted into music?

I am hence inclined to imagine that there is more of what may be called friendship among the French than with us. They are more linked together by the sounds of each other's voices, and at once the merriest and most melancholy of people, (if we believe their best authors *) they lean for happiness on the aspects and words of their fellows, and enjoying more than we the pleasures of society, are more alive to their loss. This, though it be mere speculation, is borne out by the memoires of both countries. We have no such "douces et pures" connexions to boast of, as those between La Fayette and La Rochefoucault,—with a thousand others. Their anecdotes and gleanings from private life, however

"That charming word melancholy has been abused enough to make it long since ridiculous, if any other word could have been found to express that disposition or habit of mind, to which the French are perhaps more inclined than any other people. This observation by no means compromises or contradicts the other no less true one, concerning the gaiety of their character."-Transl. from L'Hermite de la Chaussée D'Antin.