a powerful exertion of strength, which I was no longer able to resist, he dashed my body over the dreadful edge, and held me out at arm's-length above the dread abyss. The agony of years of wretchedness compressed into a single second could not have exceeded the horror of the moment I remained suspended. There was a small tree or bush which grew out of a cleft just beneath the ledge. In my frenzied struggle I caught by a branch of it just at the critical instant when the Spaniard relaxed his hold, intending to precipitate me down the fearful gulf. His purpose was again baffled for another moment of horror. He gnashed his teeth as he saw me swing off upon the fragile branch, which cracked and bent beneath my weight, and which, at most, could save me from his fury but for a fleeting moment. That moment seemed too long for his impatient hate. He sprang to the very verge of the ledge, and placing his foot firmly on the tree, pressed it down with all his strength. In vain, with chattering teeth and horror-choked voice, I implored him to desist. He answered not, but stamped furiously on the tree. The root began to give way-the loosened dirt fell from around it-the trunk snapped, cracked, and separated-and the fiend set up an inhuman laugh, which rung in my ears like the mocking of a demon, as down-downdown I fell, through the chill, thick, pitchy air, till, striking with a mighty force on the rocks beneath-I waked, and lo, it was a dream! It was broad daylight. In my sleep I had rolled from the heap of stones which had furnished me with my evening seat of meditation, and which, during my sleep, had supplied my imagination with an abundance of materials for horrid precipices and "deep-down gulfs." The laugh of the infernal Spaniard turned out to be only a burst of innocent merriment at my plight from little Paul Messenger, a rosy, curly-haired midshipman, and one of the finest little fellows in the world. The matter was soon explained. The commodore returning to the boat, and seeing me, as he expressed it, sleeping so comfortably on a bed of my own choosing, thought it would be a pity to disturb me; so shoving off, he left me to my slumbers; but on reaching the ship, gave the officer of the deck directions to send a boat for me at daylight. Little Paul, always ready to do a kind act, asked to go officer of her; and we returned together to the frigate, laughing over my story of the imaginary adventures of the night. JEANIE MORRISON. [William Motherwell, born at Glasgow, 13th October, 1797; died in that city, 1st November, 1835. His parents removed to Edinburgh, and at school there, Motherwell met the heroine of his song. He was taken to Paisley at the age of twelve, and never afterwards met the lady with whose name his reputation as a lyrical poet is most popularly associated. He entered a lawyer's office, and in 1819 was appointed sheriff-clerk depute for the county of Renfrew, which post he retained for ten years. He contributed verse and prose to various local publications; in 1830 he was appointed editor of the Glasgow Courier, and continued to fulfil the duties of that office until his death. He edited the Harp of Renfrewshire, a collection of songs by various writers; and rendered good service to Scotch ballad literature by the publication of his Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern, with an historical introduction and notes. It was in 1832 he first collected his own poems; a fuller edition. with sundry posthumous lyrics, was published after his death, accompanied by an affectionate memoir written by Dr. James M'Conechy. Of his merits as a poet Allan Cunningham said: "His lyrics are forceful and flowing-with more of the strength of Burns than of his simplicity and passion." Christopher North: "He has fine and strong sensibilities, and a powerful intellect. His style is simple, but in his tenderest movements, masculine."] I've wandered east, I've wandered west, The luve o' life's young day! O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. "Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time-sad time! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! "Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 1 Miss Morrison became the wife of a Mr. Murdoch, a merchant. She was unconscious of the passion with which she had inspired the poet When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, (The scule then skail't at noon,) When we ran aff to speel the braesThe broomy braes o' June? My head rins round and round about, As ane by ane the thochts rush back Oh mind ye, luve, how aft we left The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The throssil whusslit in the wood, And on the knowe abune the burn, Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled-unsung! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, As ye hae been to me? Oh! tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine; Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? I've wandered east, I've wandered west, But in my wanderings, far or near, The fount that first burst frae this heart, O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed A MUSICAL ENIGMA. [Rev. C. P. Cranch, born in Alexandria, D. C., 1813. The son of an eminent judge in the United States, and the author of many interesting sketches, poems and tales, notably: The Last of the Huggermuggers, and a sequel to that work, entitled Kobboltozo. Of the fantastic humour in which Mr. Cranch's talent shows to advantage the following is an example.] One chilly, windy evening in the month of December, 1831, three young men sat around a tall office-stove in Mr. Simon Shrowdwell's establishment, No. 307 Dyer Street, in the town of Boggsville. Mr. Simon Shrowdwell was a model undertaker, about fifty years of age, and the most exemplary and polite of sextons in the old Dutch church just round the corner. He was a musical man, too, and led the choir, and sang in the choruses of oratorios that were sometimes given in the town-hall. He was a smoothshaven, sleek man, dressed in decorous black, wore a white cravat, and looked not unlike a second-hand copy of the clergyman. He had the fixed, pleasant expression customary to a profession whose business it was to look sympathetic on grief, especially in rich men's houses. Still it was a kind expression; and the rest of his features indicated that he did not lack firmness in emergencies. During the cholera season of the year aforesaid he had done a thriving business, and had considerably enlarged his store and his supply of ready-made mortuary furnishings. His rooms were spacious and neat. Rows of handsome coffins, of various sizes, stood around the walls in shining array, some of them studded with silver-headed nails; and everything about the establishment looked as cheerful as the nature of his business per- friends. He had been used to customers mitted. On this December evening Mr. Shrowdwell and his wife, whose quarters were on the floor above, happened to be out visiting some friends. His young man, William Spindles, and two of his friends who had come in to keep him company, sat by the ruddy stove, smoking their pipes, and chatting as cheerily as if these cases for the dead that surrounded them were simply ornamental panels. Gas, at that time, hadn't been introduced into the town of Boggsville; but a cheerful argand-lamp did its best to light up the shop. Their talk was gay and airy, about all sorts of small matters; and people who passed the street-window looked in and smiled to see the contrast between the social smoking and chatting of these youngsters, and the grim but neat proprieties of their environment. One of the young men had smoked out his pipe, and rapped it three times on the stove, to knock out the ashes. There was an answering knocking-somewhere near; but it didn't seem to come from the street-door. They were a little startled, and Spindles called out: "Come in!" Again came the rapping, in another part of the room. "Come in!" roared Spindles, getting up and laying his pipe down. The street-door slowly opened, and in glided a tall, thin man. He was a stranger. He wore a tall, broad-brimmed hat, and a long, dark, old-fashioned cloak. His eyes were sunken, his face cadaverous, his hands long and bony. He came forward. "I wish to see Mr. Shrowdwell." "He is out," said Spindles. "Can I do anything for you?" "I would rather see Mr. Shrowdwell," said the stranger. "He will not be home till late this evening. If you have any message, I can deliver it; or you will find him here in the morning." The stranger hesitated. "Perhaps you can do it as well as Shrowdwell. . . . I want a coffin." "All right," said Spindles; "step this way, please. Is it for a grown person or a child? Perhaps you can find something here that will suit you. For some relative, I presume?" "No, no, no! I have no relatives," said the stranger. Then in a hoarse whisper, "It's for myself!" Spindles started back, and looked at his ordering coffins; but this was something new. He looked hard at the pale stranger. A queer, uncomfortable chill crept over him. As he glanced around, the lamp seemed to be burning very dimly. "You don't mean to say you are in earnest?” he stammered. And yet, he thought, this isn't a business to joke about. . . . He looked at the mysterious stranger again, and said to himself: “Perhaps he's deranged-poor man!" Meanwhile the visitor was looking around at the rows of coffins shining gloomily in the lamplight. But he soon turned about, and said: "These won't do. They are not the right shape or size. . . . You must measure me for one!" "You don't mean-" gasped Spindles. "Come, this is carrying a joke too far." "I am not joking," said the stranger; "I never joke. I want you to take my measure. And I want it made of a particular shape." Spindles looked toward the stove. His companions had heard part of the conversation, and, gazing nervously at each other, they had put on their hats and overcoats, pocketed their pipes, and taken French leave. He Spindles found himself alone with the cadaverous stranger, and feeling very queer. began to say that the gentleman had better come in the morning, when Mr. Shrowdwell was in-Shrowdwell understood this business. But the stranger fixed his cold black eyes on him, and whispered: "I can't wait. You must do it-to-night. Come, take my measure!" Spindles was held by a sort of fascination, and mechanically set about taking his measure, as a tailor would have done for a coat and trowsers. "Have you finished?" said the stranger. "Y-y-es, sir; that will do," said Spindles. "What name did you say, sir?" "No matter about my name. I have no name. Yet I might have had one, if the fates had permitted. Now for the style of the coffin I want." And taking a pencil and card from his pocket, he made a rough draught of what he wanted. And the lines of the drawing appeared to burn in the dark like phosphorus. "I must have a lid and hinges-so, you see -and a lock on the inside, and plenty of room for my arms. "All r-r-ight," said Spindles: "we'll make it. But it's not exactly in our line-to m-m-ake co-co-coffins in this style." | Spindles?" And he laughed softly at his own Certainly," stammered Spindles. "I want you to be particular about the lid and the locks. I was buried once before, you see; and this time I want to have my own way. I have one coffin, but it's too small for me. I keep it under my bed, and use it for a trunk. Good evening. Friday night-remember!" Spindles thought there would be little danger of his forgetting it. But he didn't relish the idea of seeing him again, especially at night. "However, Shrowdwell will be here then," he said. When the mysterious stranger had gone, Spindles put the bank-bill in his pocket-book, paced up and down, looked out of the window, and wished Shrowdwell would come home. "After all," he said, "it's only a crazy man. And yet what made the lamp burn so dim? And what strange raps those were before he entered! And that drawing with a phosphoric pencil! And how like a dead man he looked! Pshaw! I'll smoke another pipe." And he sat down by the stove, with his back to the coffins. At last the town-clock struck nine, and he shut up the shop, glad to get away and go home. Next morning he told Shrowdwell the story, handed him the bank-bill as corroboration, and showed him the drawing, the lines of which were very faint by daylight. Shrowdwell took the money gleefully, and locked it in his safe. "What do you think of this affair, Mr. Shrowdwell?" Spindles asked. "This is some poor deranged gentleman, Spindles. I have made coffins for deranged men-but this is something unusual-ha! ha! -for a man to come and order his own coffin, and be measured for it! This is a new and interesting case, Spindles-one that I think has never come within my experience. But let me see that drawing again. How faint it is. I must put on my specs. Why, it is nothing but a big fiddle-case-a double-bass box. He's probably some poor distracted musician, and has taken this strange fancy into his head -perhaps imagines himself a big fiddle-eh, conceit. "Pon my soul, this is a queer caseand a fiddle-case, too-ha! ha! But we must set about fulfilling his order." By Friday noon the coffin of the new pattern was finished. All the workmen were mystified about it, and nearly all cracked jokes at its queer shape. But Spindles was very grave. As the hour approached when the stranger was to call for it he became more and more agitated. He would have liked to be away, and yet his curiosity got the better of his nervousness. He asked his two friends to come in, and they agreed to do so, on Spindles' promise to go first to an oyster-saloon and order something hot to fortify their courage. They didn't say any thing about this to Shrowdwell, for he was a temperance man and a sexton. They sat around the blazing stove, all four of them, waiting for the insane man to appear. It wanted a few minutes of eight. "What's the matter with that lamp?" said Shrowdwell. "How dim it burns! It wants oil." "I filled it to-day," said Spindles. "I feel a chill all down my back," said Barker. "And there's that rapping again," said O'Brien. There was a rapping, as if underneath the floor. Then it seemed to come from the coffins on the other side of the room; then it was at the window-panes, and at last at the door. They all looked bewildered, and thought it very strange. Presently the street-door opened slowly. They saw no one, but heard a deep sigh. 'Pshaw, it's only the wind," said Shrowdwell, and rose to shut the door-when right before them stood the cadaverous stranger. They were all so startled that not a word was spoken. "I have come for my coffin," the stranger said, in a sepulchral whisper. "Is it done?" "Yes, sir," said Shrowdwell. "It's all ready. Where shall we send it?” "I take it with me," said the stranger in the same whisper. "Where is it?" "But it's too heavy for you to carry," said the undertaker. "That's my affair," he answered. "Well, of course you are the best judge whether you can carry it or not. But perhaps you have a cart outside, or a porter?" All this while the lamp had burned so dim that they couldn't see the features of the unknown. But suddenly, as he drew nearer, it flared up with a sudden blaze, as if possessed, and they saw that his face was like the face of a corpse. At the same instant an old cat which had been purring quietly by the stove-usually the most grave and decorous of tabbies-started up and glared, and then sprang to the farthest part of the room, her tail puffed out to twice its ordinary size. They said nothing, but drew back and let him pass toward the strange-looking coffin. He glided toward it, and taking it under his arm, as if it were no heavier than a small basket, moved toward the door, which seemed to open of its own accord, and he vanished into the street. "Let's follow him," said the undertaker, "and see where he's going. You know I don't believe in ghosts. I've seen too many dead bodies for that. This is some crazy gentleman, depend on it; and we ought to see that he doesn't do himself any harm. Come!" The three young men didn't like the idea of following this stranger in the dark, whether he were living or dead. And yet they liked no better being left in the dimly-lighted room among the coffins. So they all sallied out, and caught a glimpse of the visitor just turning the corner. They walked quickly in that direction. "He's going to the church," said Spindles. "No, he's turning toward the graveyard. See, he has gone right through the iron gate! And yet it was locked! He has disappeared among the trees!" were like the confused tuning of an orchestra before a concert-with discords and chromatic runs, up and down, from at least twenty instruments, but all muffled and pent in, as if under ground. Yet, thought the undertaker, this may be only the wind in the trees. "I wish the moon would come out," he said, "so we could see something. Anyhow, I think it's a Christian duty to go in there, and see after that poor man. He may have taken a notion, you know, to shut himself up in his big fiddle-case, and we ought to see that he don't do himself any injury. Come, will you go?" "Not I, thank you-nor I-nor I," said they all. "We are going home-we've had enough of this." "As Very well," said the undertaker. you please; I'll go alone." Mr. Shrowdwell was a veritable Sadducee. He believed in death firmly. The only resurrection he acknowledged was the resurrection of a tangible body at some far-off judgmentday. He had no fear of ghosts. But this was not so much a matter of reasoning with him, as temperament, and the constant contact with lifeless bodies. "When a man's dead," said Shrowdwell, "he's dead, I take it. I never see a man or woman come to life again. Don't the Scriptures say, 'Dust to dust?' It's true that with the Lord nothing is impossible, and at the last day he will summon his elect to meet him in "We'll wait here at this corner, and watch," the clouds; but that's a mystery." said Shrowdwell. They waited fifteen or twenty minutes, but saw no more of him. They then advanced and peered through the iron railings of the cemetery. The moon was hidden in clouds, which drifted in great masses across the sky, into which rose the tall, dim church-steeple. The wind blew drearily among the leafless trees of the burial-ground. They thought they saw a dark figure moving down toward the northwest corner. Then they heard some of the vault-doors creak open and shut with a heavy thud. "Those are the tombs of the musicians," whispered the undertaker. "I have seen several of our Handel - and - Haydn Society buried there-two of them, you remember, were taken off by cholera last summer. Ah, well, in the midst of life we are in death; we none of us know when we shall be taken. I have a lot there myself, and expect to lay my bones in it some day." Presently strange sounds were heard, seeming to come from the corner spoken of. They And yet he couldn't account for this mysterious visitor passing through the tall iron railings of the gate-if he really did pass-for after all it may have been an ocular illusion. But he determined to go in and see what he could see. He had the key of the cemetery in his pocket. He opened the iron gate and passed in, while the other men stood at a distance. They knew the sexton was proof against spirits of all sorts, airy or liquid; and after waiting a little, they concluded to go home, for the night was cold and dreary—and ghost or no ghost, they couldn't do much good there. As Shrowdwell approached the north-west corner of the graveyard, he heard those singular musical sounds again. They seemed to come from the vaults and graves, but they mingled so with the rush and moaning of the wind, that he still thought he might be mistaken. In the farthest corner there stood a large old family vault. It had belonged to a family with an Italian name, the last member of which had been buried there many years ago—and since then had not been opened. The vines |