whistle ceased, the cloud upon the moon past away, and the latter shone out again more brightly than before. The figure that had frighted him was nothing more than a tree, and the moonlight streaming through two apertures in its branches, had appeared to the countryman's distempered fancy to be two large terrific eyes fixed upon himself. Being now undeceived, he laughed at his late fears, and replacing the empty barrel on his head, he resumed his journey. But no sooner had he done so than the infernal whistle recommenced, and gave him as much alarm as ever.

It was in vain he looked everywhere for the cause, it was to him perfectly inexplicable; near him and around him the shrill whew-whewing was heard, and round about, like “a hero dangling on a rope," did the terrified countryman pursue it, till he was "downright dizzy with the thought" and the exertion. The whistle was continually in his ear, it went wherever he went; he could not trace its cause. It was plain he was haunted by a whistle-a shrill piercing musically terrific whistle-and his heart was like to burst with terror and vexation.

In this uncomfortable state he continued his journey, till he had entered upon a road that led between two hedges to his home. His soul fell prostrate, like a felled bullock, as he surveyed the dreariness of the prospect before him; and he had got as far as the middle of it, ere he had altogether recovered his consciousness or his courage. The mysterious whistle had not ceased, it was still heard at intervals; shrill, piercing, and melancholy as ever, like a mischievous imp that leaves its victim for a time, only to return with unabated fury to its sport. The countryman's heart, however, had had opportunity to return to its place; he was determined to conquer the spirit that haunted him with its own weapon; so he plucked up a spirit, and whistled to it as lustily and as loudly as it did to him.

But his courage was doomed to receive another shock before his journey was ended.--About a quarter of a mile from his cottage, there was an opening in the hedge, which led home through a park where cows were left to graze. As he approached this opening he perceived that a large white, ghostly object was standing full in his way, and blocking up the passage. His courage was at last fairly capsized, so were his hopes, so was his empty anker. He made one step forward, and fell all his length in the mud. While he lay trembling on the ground, a pair of huge semicircular horns rose between him and the sky; they seemed to be attached to a head of vast circumference, belonging to a body of most alarming size. This was too much for him, and something like a swoon

came over his senses and his spirit. When he recovered, the object of his terrors had disappeared.

He was pale and agitated when he arrived at home, and his wife was no less alarmed than astonished at his haggard appearance. He was not long, however, in telling her the cause; but she laughed at him when he was done.

Yon

"Odd, woman," says he, as he supped his sowens, “I verily believe I was haunted a' the way hame by an evil speerit. was a maist unearthly sound, something like a whistle, but mair supernatural and awfu’, and whan I was comin' doon the lang loan up by, I'm as sure as I'm a livin' man, that I saw the deil himsel'. At least I'll tak my davy that I saw his horns." and swallow yer supper. "Haud yer tongue," said his dearie. D'ye think ye'll get me to believe sic stories? Whar hae ye left the barrel ?"

"Odd I dinna ken, if the deevil hasna run aff wi't frae me in the loan."

"The deevil! the mischief! Ye hae been frightened out o? yer senses by the wind whistling in the empty bung-hole o' an empty barrel. Ye hae been drinkin', ye loon."

Ca'

canna get thae horns

"I had but the share of twa mutchkins amang three o' us. ye that drinkin'? But odd, Jeanie, lass! out o' my head. What d'ye say to the horns woman?" "The horns!" cried his wife; "ye're aye frighted for horns, and without ony cause. I suppose they were the horns o' some poor wearied cow that had faun asleep in the gap, and wha was mair He! he! Johnny, lad, ye're frighted for you, than you was for it. owre feard for horns. They'll be yer ain some day."

Tradition does not say whether this explanation pleased Johnny, or if he persisted in believing that he had actually heard the devil's whistle, and seen his horns; but I trust my readers will be satisfied with the story, and so I leave Johnny and his wife to settle the matter betwixt them the best way they can.

THE PAST IS POETRY.

THE past is poetry! The rudest sound,
That ever jarr'd on echo's sleeping ear,
Will fade to far-off harmony, before
It altogether die! The ambient air,
That near us undulates all unperceived,
When far away assumes the hues of heaven,

And to a dome of azure marble grows,
Looking as it could never know decay!
The past is poetry! The deeds, the days,
The feelings, thoughts, and phantasies of old
Sown thickly o'er the memory, spring up,

As odorous flowers to frame a wreath of song ;-
Yea more!-for some there be of nature blest,
Whose rich balsamic virtue ministers,

Nor vainly" ministers to minds diseased!"
Hence the remembrance of an action kind

Done in our boyhood, like the prayer of morn,
Sustains and soothes us thro' life's weary day!
And therefore did the ancient poet feign
Mnemosyne the mother of each muse!
She is the hidden Castaly, that flows,
Oft bitter, but refreshing still and bright.
The past is poetry!

J. M.

DEVOTION.

"Wild Darrel is an altered man."

Scott.

"it was an old German, who had come hither, according to the custom of his countrymen, to assist in getting in the harvest.-He was now to behold the sea for the first time. As he drew near he uncovered his hoary head, and suddenly sinking on his knees, gazed upon the glorious element. There was no murmur, no motion on his lips, but the language of his countenance, who shall interpret ?"

Extract from my Journal.-Schevening, Oct. 1830.

Many a time-many a time,

In his boyhood's vernal prime,

When he roved his native valleys

Where the queen of streams, the Rhine,

Issues from her mountain palace

To dispense her boons benign-
Often, often, then and there,
Had his simple childish prayer,
Like a dew-drop, flown above
To the source of light and love.

For the beautiful, the bright,
Ever present to his sight,

Had like summer's glancing showers,

Mildly sunk into his heart,

Till sweet thoughts, like waking flowers,
Into life and light would start!
But it was not yet devotion,
This spontaneous emotion ;-
'Twas enjoyment's happy sigh
Rising odour-like on high!

Yet that vale, in after-years,
Grew for him a vale of tears !-
Ah! the rosy wreath that lightly
Now the boyish brow adorns,
Stretch'd o'er manhood's temples tightly,
Will become a crown of thorns!

Life will lose the dazzling hue
That it wore when strange and new;
For the mind will learn to scan,

Till it fear its fellow-man!

Tears adown his cheeks were stealing
And he clasp'd his wither'd hands;

And his reverend locks of gray
Flutter'd in the sun's last ray,
As he bow'd before the ocean
Overwhelm'd with deep devotion!

Oh! 'twas wonderful!-sublime!-
'Twas as if the things of time,-
Waning seasons, days declining,
Setting suns, and sands all bare,
And that human being pining,

Old, and lone, and helpless, there!--
All that's fleeting,-seemed to be
Worshipping eternity!

For that ever-youthful sea
Shone a type of such to me!

J. M.

THE AMATEUR'S THREE YES'S.

A BRIEF REMINISCENCE OF PICTURE-HUNTING.

THOUGH I am not a scientific observer of "the mute and motionless art," as the author of The Pleasures of Hope calls painting, yet I somehow prefer being alone at an exhibition, or with a friend who judges in my own way, to having an artist or amateur alongside of me, with his clouding technicalities or obtrusive hints, perpetually disturbing the kindly current of my thoughts. This disinclination has perhaps originated in experience of the blindness of such guides. I would by no means insinuate that a man of genius, whatever his department, could be otherwise than an agreeable and instructive companion; but I believe, at the same time, that no plain man would be troubled with anything professional from artists such as Wilkie or Allan. He would probably discern acuteness and knowledge, though whether pertaining to poet, or painter, or philosopher, or all together, it would very much puzzle him to determine. This is so much a matter of course, that I state it merely to limit and illustrate my meaning. Every person who has frequented such places, will know. what I mean by the common herd of talkers, who go up and down our picture-rooms in search of ears. It was my lot not very long ago to be fixed upon by one of them. From some previous knowledge of the brotherhood, I was aware of him before he had finished his first sentence; and determined to make my escape as soon as possible, and return on another day. But first let me tell what I was looking at when he assailed me. "Picture of a

Castle by moonlight." "Why"-squeaked he out, "these clouds ar'n't in nature, and if they were, the trees below don't harmonize, though it is a pretty thing, only out of keeping, and I fear won't go off among so many first-rates." "It certainly is a pretty painting," said I," and I should not readily have observed the defects you mention. The ruin, I think, is very finely broken."—" There I am with you," said he, "just my perspective-my chiaro schuro -light dipping into shade. It is finely broken-yes, you are right." At this juncture a third party joined us, and contrary to my first intention, I remained stationary. "Poor Darrel has failed at last, or I am no judge," said the new-comer. "Oh! my dear Mr Garret," he continued, "how are you? Got the prints home safe? That's right. You beat all our amateurs at a bargain." (Here the speaker and my friend shook hands.) Why, I have had some practice now, George," said Mr Garret; " and as to Darrel-I am