relish. It was night, but still they could easily distinguish the house to be neither like the great Castle Grant, Castle Lethindry, Castle Roy, or Castle-na-muchkeruch at home, nor like any other house they had seen on their travels. It resembled a huge fairyTomhan,' such as are seen in Glenmore. But the mild persuasive eloquence of the guide, reinforced by the irresistible arguments of a purse of gold, soon removed any scruples they felt at the idea of entering so novel a mansion. They entered the place, and all sensations of fear were soon absorbed in those of admiration of the august assembly which surrounded them; strings tuned to sweet harmony soon gave birth to glee in the dwelling. The floor bounded beneath the agile 'fantastic toe,' and gaiety in its height pervaded every soul present. The night passed on harmoniously, while the diversity of the reels, and the loveliness of the dancers, presented to the fiddlers the most gratifying scene they ever witnessed; and in the morning, when the ball was terminated, they took their leave, sorry that the time of their engagement was so short, and highly gratified at the liberal treatment which they experienced. But what was their astonishment, on issuing forth from this strange dwelling, when they beheld the novel scene which surrounded them! Instead of coming out of a castle, they found they had come out of a little hill, they knew not what way, and on entering the town they found those objects, which yesterday shone in all the splendour of novelty, to-day exhibit only the ruins and ravages of time, while the strange innovations of dress and manners displayed by their numerous spectators filled them with wonder and consternation. At last a mutual understanding took place between themselves and the crowd assembled to look upon them, and a short account of their adventures led the more sagacious part of the spectators to suspect at once that they had been paying a visit to the inhabitants of Tomnafurich, which, not long ago, was the grand rendezvous of many of the fairy bands inhabiting the surrounding districts; and the arrival of a very old man on the spot set the mattér fairly at rest. On being attracted by the crowd, he walked up to the two poor old oddities, who were the subject of amazement, and having learned their history, thus addressed them: "You are the two men my great-grandfather lodged, and who, it was supposed, were decoyed by Thomas Rymer to Tomnafurich. Sore did your friends lament your loss-but the lapse of a hundred years has now rendered your name.extinct." Finding every circumstance conspire to verify the old man's story, the poor fiddlers were naturally inspired with feelings of reverential awe at the secret wonders of the Deity-and it being the sabbath-day, they naturally wished to indulge those feelings in a place of worship. They, accordingly, proceeded to church, and took their places, to hear public worship, and sat for a while listening to the pealing bells, which, while they summoned the remainder of the congregation to church, summoned them to their long homes. When the ambassador of peace ascended the sacred place, to announce to his flock the glad tidings of the gospel-strange to tell, at the first word utttered by his lips, his ancient hearers, the poor deluded fiddlers, both crumbled into dust." The following story is a little more horrible, and, as it is a good story of its kind, we extract it. After describing the death of Macgillichallum of Razay, à great enemy to the witches, who had accomplished his destruction, the author goes on: The same day, another hero, celebrated for his hatred of witchcraft, was warming himself in his hunting hut, in the forest of Gaick in Badenoch. His faithful hounds, fatigued with the morning chase, lay stretched on the turf by his side,his gun, that would not miss, reclined in the neuk of the boothy,-the skian dhu of the sharp edge hung by his side, and these alone constituted his company. As the hunter sat listening to the howling storm as it whistled by, there entered at the door an apparently poor weather-beaten cat, shivering with cold, and drenched to the skin. On observing her, the hairs of the dogs became erected bristles, and they immediately rose to attack the pitiable cat, which stood trembling at the door. "Great hunter of the hills," exclaims the poor-looking trembling cat, "I claim your protection. I know your hatred to my craft, and perhaps it is just. Still spare, oh spare a poor jaded wretch, who thus flies to you for protection from the cruelty and oppression of her sisterhood." Moved to compassion by her eloquent address, and disdaining to take advantage of his greatest enemy in such a seemingly forlorn situation, he pacified his infuriated dogs, and desired her to come forward to the fire and warm herself. "Nay," says she, "in the first place, you will please bind with this long hair those two furious hounds of yours, for I am afraid they will tear my poor hams to pieces. I pray you, therefore, my dear sir, that you would have the goodness to bind them together by the necks with this long hair." But the curious na 66 ture of the hair induced the hunter to dissemble a little. Instead of having bound his dogs with it, as he pretended, he threw it across a beam of wood which connected the couple of the boothy. The witch then supposing the dogs securely bound, approached the fire, and squatted herself down as if to dry herself. She had not sitten many minutes, when the hunter could easily discover a striking increase in her size, which he could not forbear remarking in a jocular manner to herself. "A bad death to you, you nasty beast," says the hunter; you are getting very large."" Aye, aye," replied the cat, equally jocosely, "as my hairs imbibe the heat, they naturally expand." These jokes, however, were but a prelude to a more serious conversation. The cat still continuing her growth, had at length attained a most extraordinary size,-when, in the twinkling of an eye, she transformed herself into her proper likeness of the Goodwife of Laggan, and thus addressed him: "Hunter of the Hills, your hour of reckoning is arrived. Behold me before you, the avowed champion of my devoted sisterhood, of whom Macgillichallum of Razay and you were always the most relentless enemies. But Razay is no more. His last breath is fled. He lies a lifeless corpse on the bottom of the main; and now, Hunter of the Hills, it is your turn.” With these words, assuming a most hideous and terrific appearance, she made a spring at the hunter. The two dogs, which she supposed securely bound by the infernal hair, sprung at her in her turn, and a most furious conflict ensued. The witch, thus unexpectedly attacked by the dogs, now began to repent of her temerity. "Fasten, hair, fasten," she perpetually exclaimed, supposing the dogs to have been" bound by the hair, and so effectually did the hair fasten, according to her order, that it at last snapt the beam in twain. At length, finding herself completely overpowered, she attempted a retreat, but so closely were the hounds fastened in her breasts, that it was with no small difficulty she could get herself disengaged from them. Screaining and shrieking, the Wife of Laggan dragged herself out of the house, trailing after her the dogs, which were fastened in her so closely, that they never loosed their hold, until she démolished every tooth in their heads. Then metamorphosing herself into the likeness of a raven, she fled over the mountains in the direction of her home. The two faithful dogs, bleeding and exhausted, returned to their master, and, in the act of caressing his hand, both fell down and expired at his feet.' On his return home he learns that the witch is expiring, and, (rés pairing to her house, he tears off the bed-clothes, and exposes the marks made by his dogs' teeth in her bosom, the indisputable proofs of her guilt. The sequel of the story is related thus: 'Meanwhile a neighbour of the Wife of Laggan was returning! home late at night from Strathdearn, where he had been upon some business, and had just entered the dreary forest of Monalea in Badenoch, when he met a woman dressed in black, who ran with great speed, and inquired at the traveller, with great agitation, how far she was distant from the church-yard of Dalarossie, and if she could be there by twelve o'clock. The traveller told her she might, if she con tinued to go at the same pace that she did then. She then fled alongst the road, uttering the most desponding lamentations, and the traveller continued his road to Badenoch. He had not, however, walked many miles when he met a large black dog, which travelled past him with much velocity, as if upon the scent of a track or footsteps, and soon after he met another large black dog sweeping along in the same manner. The last dog, however, was scarcely past, when he met a stout black man on a fine fleet black courser, prancing along in the same direction after the dogs. "Pray," says the rider to the traveller,', "did you meet a woman as you came along the hill?" The traveller replied in the affirmative. And did you meet a dog soon after??" rejoined the rider. The traveller replied he did. And," added the rider, "do you think the dog will overtake her ere she can reach the church of Dalarossie???"He will, at any rate, be very close upon her heels," answered the traveller. Each then took his own way. But before the traveller had got the length of Glenbanchar, the rider overtook him on his return, with the foresaid woman be-fore him across the bow of his saddle, and one of the dogs fixed it her breast, and another in her thigh. Where did you overtake the woman?" inquired the traveller. "Just as she was entering the church-yard of Dalarossie," was his reply. On the traveller's return home, he heard of the fate of the unfortunate Wife of Laggan, which soon explained the nature of the company he had met on the road. It was, no doubt, the spirit of the Wife of Laggan flying for protection from the infernal spirits, (to whom she had sold herself,) to the VOL. 1 May, 1823, Br. Mag. 66 church-yard of Dalarossie, which is so sacred a place, that a witch is immediately dissolved from all her ties with Satan, on making a pilgrimage to it, either dead or alive. But, it seems the unhappy Wife of Laggan was a stage too late.' An account of the festive amusements of the Highlanders closes the volume; but so much has the subject been worn of late, that little novelty could be expected. All that the author (Mr. Grant Stewart) could do he has done he has invested with a humorous and sprightly character which belongs to them these tales of popular superstition, and in this respect, as well as in the adaptation of his style to his subject, he has displayed a singular good taste and originality which render his volume highly amusing. THE AGE OF BRONZE. Ir a proof were wanting that the powers of men of the highest talent are subject to limitations as well as those of more ordinary pretensions, Lord Byron's late works would furnish it. We presume it will not be denied that his talents are of the highest order, any more than that he writes bad dramas. With the exception of Manfred, all his attempts in the latter style have been little more than failures as compared with his other writings. He cannot furnish dialogue, he cannot speak in the mouths of other people; it is when he utters in his own person, or in the person of a favorite hero whom he identi fies with that character which he has established in poetry, (and which we believe is very different from his private character,) that his genius takes its unfettered flight. His spirit seems to be cabin'd and confin'd' within the rules of the drama; but in less formal poetry it soars in a realm of its own creation, and utters with delighted freedom the sometimes bitter and always deep feelings which animate it. It is for this reason that in satire his happiest efforts have been made; in his first essay, to which he was impelled by wounded pride and a certain aristocratical contempt, he gave a proof that his awakened rage was formidable, and that his poetical powers were of the highest order; those parts of Childe Harold, and still more those of Don Juan, in which he has indulged in bitter sarcasm, are the most eminent proofs he has yet given of the strength of his genius. The poem which has given rise to these remarks, although evidently produced in haste, and possessing many faults and inaccuracies, has also some beauties peculiarly his own. We have no respect for the temper in which it is written, nor for the petty feelings which weaken and disgrace some passages of it; but there are others which lay claim to high praise. It is an extensive and virulent satire on the present state of affairs abroad and at home, and it is as little ceremonious as a good satire always ought to be. The following allusion to the rival orators of the House of Commons, when that house possessed orators, is as true as it is powerful : 'Reader! remember when thou wert a lad, Then Pitt was all; or, if not all, so much, His very rival almost deemed him such. We, we have seen the intellectual race Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea Of eloquence between, which flowed all free, He describes the fallen Buonaparte dying in his island prison; and presents happily, and in few words, a picture of that passage in the hero's life, which, whatever may be the conflicting opinions respecting him, united all men in one feeling of compassion. 'But smile-though all the pangs of brain and heart Though, save the few fond friends, and imaged face The noble poet's admiration of Buonaparte, exalted as it is, still rests on this side idolatry; and while we cannot deny that he was one of the few really great men of whom our modern history can boast, we concur with the bard in assigning to his own crime or error the events which laid him low. If, however, it had less of truth than it has, the poetry of the following_extract would universally recommend it; the description of the French legions sinking under the blast of the icy north wind is uncommonly powerful : 'Oh heaven! of which he was in power a feature; Thou Rome, who sawst thy Cæsar's deeds outdone; With clashing hosts, who strewed the barren sand Spain! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, |