comforts and splendour to be found in the mansion of a nobleman of the present day.

At the bottom of the rock, under Culzean Castle, are three caves, to which access may be obtained at low water, and which are also associated with several legends connected with the name of Kennedy.

The noble family who inhabit this mansion are descended from Duncan de Carrick, who lived in the twelfth century. The fifth in descent from Duncan, was Sir John of Dunure, who abandoned the name of Carrick and assumed that of Kennedy. Gilbert, great grandson of Sir John, was created Baron Kennedy, about the year 1452. In 1509, David, third lord, was raised to the dignity of an earl, by James IV. He was killed at the battle of Flodden, and was succeeded by Gilbert, his eldest son, from whom the titles and honours have descended, through successive generations, to the present earl.

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There is no patent of creation, as Lodge informs us in his peerage, either to the Barony of Kennedy or the Earldom of Cassilis, and it is held by the law of Scotland that titles of honour, when not otherwise limited by patent, are hereditary in the heirs male of the first grantee. "This principle," continues Mr. Lodge, being recognised by the House of Lords, on the petition of Sir Thomas Kennedy, on the death (in 1759) of John, eighth Earl, whereby the male descendants of Gilbert, fourth Earl, became extinct, he succeeded as ninth earl, being the lineal descendant and heir male of of Sir Thomas Kennedy of Culzean, second son of of Gilbert, third Earl, and brother of the fourth Earl." From this Sir Thomas Kennedy, the present Earl, is lineally descended.

THE SLAYER AND THE SLAIN.

He is dead! we are alone in the chamber, the slayer and the slain. Ay! there you lie, Richard Mostyn, there you lie stiff in death. There you lie, my schoolfellow, my chum, my companion, my confidant, my friend --and your blood is upon my sword.

How strangely this array of luxury, this magnificently furnished table, these relics of a costly feast, contrast with the condition of him who gave it. The guests are gone the songs have been sung-the jests are evaporated-the jesters asleep. And he he who called them together-he, the wit, the grace of the company, the glory of the scene, is weltering in his blood. There stands before his chair his unfinished glass, and there too lies that unfinished letter to-to-to— -no matter to whom, for her name shall never cross my lips again.

I am athirst. I must remain here a few minutes longer. The household are slumbering; little do they think what is before them in the morning. I pour out this goblet of the wine of the man whom I have killed. Fiercely have I drank it. Shall I try another? I may with impunity. The demon working in my brain is too potent to be quelled by so feeble a power. Wine—wine; what is wine when compared with hate?

Oh! Richard! Richard! those were gay days when we were in Oriel together, and shared every thought,

every amusement, every study, every dissipation. Twenty years have past and gone, but the recollection of those golden hours is brighter in my mental eye than that of the events of yesterday. Who of those who then saw us together could have thought that Richard Mostyn was to perish by the hand of Tom Churchill? Who would have thought that Richard Mostyn would have committed that surpassing wrong which justifies his slaughter to my soul?

Justifies! out, cold word! When I think of what he has done, his death makes me rejoice. I exult that I Let me examine his features as he lies

have slain him.

beneath my foot.

Yes, there is still that clear and ample brow shaded with clustering locks; that beauteous countenance; that magnificent form. Pale are the once blooming cheeks. Silent are the lips on whose accents I so often hung; closed the eyes once beaming with intelligence, or glowing with friendship. Why were those lips taught to deceive and betray? Why were the glances of those eyes permitted to work ruin and disgrace? Why did those lips dare to press―out, cursed thought-shall I stay here to parley with myself in words approaching to compassion when I think of that? Here lies the man who injured me beyond hope; his carcass is stretched at my foot, and I trample on it in the fury of despair. Once-twice-thrice, I bury my rapier in his body. There-there-there.

I am a fool. I dishonour not the poor remains; I dishonour myself. But I know not what I do. I am glad, however, that he fought me. I could not have slain him as an assassin slays. Did he fight with his wonted bravery? Perhaps not. The sense of what he had done must have weighed heavy on his soul, and un

nerved his arm. A few passes and he was dead. I am not sure that he defended himself as he could have done. I am sure that this wound in my side was accidental. I am happy that I have received it. It shows that the fight was fair.

God! how I longed for that fight; with what impatience I waited for the breaking up of this protracted banquet; with what disgust I viewed the tardy departure of the wine-laden guests, and heard their praises of their entertainer. They were gone at last. Too well did I know how to enter, unobserved, this house, long the scene of many a happy, many a frolic hour. I stood before him alone. He was writing; my heart told me to whom. How he started! what a flush of conscious shame and guilt overspread his features when his uplifted eyes met mine. "I know," said he, "why you come." "You know, then," I replied, "that I come not to talk. Draw, scoundrel, draw. You are a villain, but you were not a coward. One or both of us must fall in this room before the hour is over!"

Fain would he parley; fain refuse to draw on his "friend." Gracious God! On his friend. The word made me mad. I forced him to defend himself, and he has fallen. The crime was great; the fight was fair; and my revenge is accomplished. I have slain him full of bread-I have killed him, body and soul.

My wound bleeds apace; I must stanch it as I can. My senses begin to reel. What was he writing when the avenger came? Ay, as I thought-as I knew. Dare I read it? the words gleam out of the paper like fire. But what is this? Contrition-sorrow-penitence -remorse. He was a villain, then, bold-faced to the world, but not gay at heart. I am glad that the iron had

entered into his soul-that some of the miseries which he has inflicted on me came back upon himself. But it is all hypocrisy. Satiety had-No more of that! Oh! Richard! let me hope that the remorse was real, and that I have not sent you to your last account without some true shade of penitence upon your spirit.

Why do the boatmen tarry? How strange it is that, in the confusion of my thoughts, I should have put this miniature into my pocket. Faithful painter! it is sheshe, innocent, good, true and kind. Isabella! I thought that I was never more to breathe the word, but it flies to my lips. Isabella! you have wrung my heart, have marred my hopes, have stained my name. You must be as an outcast, nay, as an enemy to me for ever; but I love you still. Your partner in sin is gone-may God return to you the peace of mind that to me is lost. I declare before heaven that I knew not when I married you that your consent was extorted by the prayers and advice of your parents, and that your heart belonged to the long-absent Mostyn. What a world of sorrow a candid tale of your feelings would have saved! How he betrayed his friend, and how you yielded your honour I know not-I seek not to know. It is passed. He is dead. You go to a life of obscurity or shame. I fly an exile from my native land. The moon rises over the hill, and I can see the boat rocking by the shore. The shrill whistle of Tom Bowling summons me away, and I leave England never to return. I leave behind me a scene of blood and sorrow, but I bear with me a hand which shed that blood, and a heart in which sorrow has set its throne. Many a man will grieve over Richard Mostyn, but what can their grief be when compared with that of him who has killed him? In another