YET once more shall we see thee-sainted to our heart's recollection by the Friends who made thee dear to us-yet once more shall we see ee, O Cottage of the Glen! White-walled, with thy porch thick lustered over with woodbine, thy windows glowing in the light of the setting Sun, and the river spreading

"Its tiny thread of golden hue"

a belt of beauty round thy close-shaven lawn, thou risest on our spirit in the stillness of this midnight hour, clear as when of old we gazed on thee from the small "planting" at thy side, and blessed thee as the home of our first, our only love! Years, many long years, have passedhaply not hereafter to be considered blanks in our existence; thoughts have sprung up in our hearts-haply not without awakening echoes in other bosoms, which, when this frame is mingled with the dust, shall retain them as the voicings of an Immortal Spirit, which disdained not to mingle itself in the hopes and fears, the joys and sorrows, of lowlier men. Aspirations after fame have thrilled through our being-haply not altogether without their consummation; but years, thoughts, and aspirations have floated at this moment from our mind, like morning mists from thine own romantic lake, and leave thee, in thy pastoral and simple beauty, mirrored in clearness and serenity, on the calm, still waters of our heart. Lo! in that modest parlour, whose small window is diminished to still smaller size by the roses which have thrust themselves in beautiful profusion over half the lower panes dim lighted, and yet how bright!—are seated two creatures, in the deep embrazure of that picturesque casement-a Boy and Girl! Long auburn tresses falling over a neck of snow, a figure buoyant with the first glorious— and to herself but half-revealed consciousness of Womanhood-what is it that can be added by the imagination of the Painter or the Poet to improve one noble feature, one splendid lineament, of Marion Scott?

There they sit the Two-in that hour the sole inhabitants of the world— motionless as the statues of Nymph and Hero moulded by Grecian sculptor in his mood of loftiest inspiration, till his soul quailed, awe-struck before the unearthly radiance of its own dream-born creations-motionless, save where that snow-white bosom heaves timidly beneath its silken vest, like a pure water lily moved gently to and fro by the ripple of some mountain tarn, when the Spirit of the Wind breathes out his softest sigh upon its waters. They speak not. Mute are that joyous pair-one word uttered by human lips is useless now-they have spoken it with their eyes, they have heard it with their hearts-they love!

Their love, how it prospered! How often they wandered together in that blissful state of youth and innocence, when the present comprehends an eternity, it boots not now to tell. Three summers passed on, and found them loving and beloved; the fourth came, and never, O, never, were those hands clasped again!-never were those eyes gazed on in the mutual rapture of uncalculating affection!-and now, when fifty years have rolled their dark shadows over that picture of glory and enchantment, a grey-headed, infirm old man is setting out to revisit the scenes of his youth's delights.

Carefully is our crutch deposited in our easy-going vehicle-our feet are assiduously arranged in many a roll of cloth and flannel, and at last we commence our long-intended pilgrimage on a fine bright morning in April, prepared equally for its smiles and tears; for in one pocket of our chaise is snugly packed up a small cauker of Glenlivet, and in the other a presentation copy, superbly bound, of that entertaining volume, The Essays on Opinion, by Henry Sewell Stokes. "Softly, softly, our good John, over this rough part of the road, or the infernal weight in the right hand pocket will overbalance the Glenlivet, and chuck us deeper than ever plummet sounded, into the water of Leith. Now, now-thanks to these double-safety springs-we are fairly past the danger. 'Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels, and fly like thought-'”

"With a snort and with a blow,

Trees are nodding as we go!"

Can there be a more gentlemanly object in the compass of creation than a fine tall graceful-looking Poplar, a more noble independent sort of a fellow than an Oak! And see where that delicate aerial being hangs mournfully over the deep winding of the stream,-all her locks dishevelled, and her form bending as if beneath a load of premature and unendurable sorrows-a Willow, called well and truly, and with a feeling of the gracefulness and poetry of grief-a Weeping Willow. That Cherry-tree, to be sure, is a little too gaudy in her attire, considering it is yet so early in the morning, but still she retains her loveliness, even beneath such a load of untimely ornament, and drops us a curtesy as we pass, with the air of a juvenile Duchess. Now do we feel ourselves every inch a King! Spring, after a few yawnings and rubbings of her eyes, has at last fairly awakened-nay, in her morning dishabille, lovelier a thousand times than in her dress of ceremony, she has come out, with a boddice still unlaced, her hair only decked with the blossoms she gathers on her way, and trips through bye-lanes and hedge-rows unseen

by the eyes of the irreverent and profane, but revealed in the enchantment of her budding loveliness to the hearts and spirits of worshippers so true and so zealous as Ourselves. There! just where yonder Thorn begins to give symptoms of its

"Shower of pearl,"

we caught a glimpse of the bright smile of the Youthful Season-her blue eye fixed upon us with a kind regard;-but away, and away! as if playfully hiding herself from our glances, she fleets over the green tops of yonder hedge, and shelters herself in security behind the withered Elm. Her steps have been every where, on earth,

"In heaven, and o'er the sea."

Above, below, around us, the spirit of her growing beauty has spread itself. Ethereal mildness is diffused over all the face of Nature, and even Glenlivet becomes more ineffably soft and fascinating beneath this bright April sky.-Bright? Have we been dreaming? Even now, as we look out of our window, the face of Nature is darkened with the scowl of Death. Uproarious gusts of wind are battering round our Welsh wig, as if intent to commit a burglary on the tympanum of our ear, and splash! splash! splash! a deluge is urged against our righthand pane, and our landscape on that side is daubed in water colours. To the left, the hedges are bowed down beneath

"The pelting of the pitiless storm”

the white blossoms of the Thorn and Cherry are scattered and dashed to earth-and in darkness and storm our chariot pursues its way, while far off, fringing yon inky cloud with a border of supernatural brightness, the Sun is pouring down his rays, as if unconscious that a respectable old gentleman was shivering within a mile or two of their influence, and that his coachman, through a great coat with three capes, was wet to the skin. Two Worlds are now before us-one dark and dismal, the other clear, and

"Radiant, with no cloud;"

a shower of sun-beams falls dazzlingly athwart the sky, and though the meadows at our side are half undistinguishable through the drizzle, we see everything with the distinctness of actual presence, that lies in that glorious valley beyond our clouds. What are these Two Landscapes? -They are drawn by the Great Artist in her own immortal coloursThey speak to the Spirit more than to the eye, for what are they but the transcripts of those two noble visions of the soul-Hope and Memory!

Here, for a whole hour have we been talking about every thing and nothing, and have not yet got so far as the Queen's Ferry. Hark! Above the roll of our chariot wheels, above the pattering of this indefatigable shower, did we not hear a deep, booming sound, which once heard can never be forgotten? The Sea, the everlasting Sea, is at our feet; and lo! a rain-storm passes over his face, darkening and making fearful its beauty, as over the countenance of some Demigod of old flitted the gaunt shadow of Murder or Revenge. Up the long expanse of the Firth the Storm pursues his way-the headlands, one after