visited by the owner, with the intention of residing in it; when, on the night of his arrival, the dreadful cry of the infuriated Benshee assailed the house, and continued to do so nightly until it was once more deserted; since which time it has been totally uninhabited.

Such is the strange relation which is familiar in the mouths of the peasantry in that part of the country where the incidents are supposed to have taken place. But the idea here given of a Benshee is by no means without exceptions; for, in some parts of the country, the apparition is described as an old man, and, in others, an old woman, who announce their doleful news from the ashes' corner, or from under the staircase. In general, however, the Benshee is understood to be like a beautiful young woman, who utters her melancholy cry, sometimes once, and sometimes twice, before death, near to a spring, a river, or a lake. Whether she is the friend or enemy of the family to which she is attached is not distinctly understood.

THINK OF ME.

Oh! think of me when thou'rt away,
In other scenes more blythe and gay,
Than greet thee on this barren moor,
Where nought but dark'ning tempests lower.

E'en where thy bark shall proudly ride
Upon the green-hu'd ocean's tide,
And, shouldst thou reach another clime,
Remember her thou'rt left behind.

And if misfortunes round thee rise,
Or if beset with enemies,

My prayers to heaven shall then ascend,
And mercies in return descend.

Then think of me when far away,
In winter's gloom, and summer's day;
And, shouldst thou fairer beauties see,
Forget not, oh! forget not me.

D. M. L.

COBUS YERKS.

A NEW YORK STORY.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE LITTLE Dutch SENTINEL;"
SPANISH GIRL;"
66 THE EVE OF ST. JOHN," &c.

THE

Little Cobus Yerks-his name was Jacob, but being a Dutchman, if not a double Dutchman, it was rendered in English, Cobus-little Cobus, I say, lived on the banks of Sawmill River, where it winds close under the brow of the Raven Rock, an enormous precipice jutting out of the side of the famous Buttermilk Hill, of which the reader has doubtless often heard. It was a rude romantic spot, distant from the high road, which, however, could be seen winding up the hill about three miles off. His nearest neighbours were at the same distance, and he seldom saw company except at night, when the fox and the weasel sometimes beat up his quarters, and caused a hor. rid cackling among the poultry.

One Tuesday, in the month of November, 1793, Cobus had gone in his waggon to the little market town, on the river, from whence the boats plied weekly to New York, with the produce of the neighbouring farmers. It was then a pestilent little place for running races, pitching quoits, and wrestling for gin slings; but I must do it the credit to say, that it is now a very orderly town, sober, and quiet, save when Parson Mathias, who calls himself a son of thunder, is praying in secret, so as to be heard across the river. It so happened that of all the days in the year, this was the very day a rumour had got into town, that I myself-the veritable writer of this true story-had been poisoned by a dish of souchong tea, which was bought a great bargain of a country merchant. There was not a stroke of work done in the village that day. The shoemaker abandoned his awl-the tailor his goose-the hatter his bowstring-and the forge of the blacksmith was cool from dawn till nightfall. Silent was the sonorous harmony of the big spinning wheel. Silent the village song, and silent the fiddle of Master Timothy Canty, who passed his livelong time in playing tuneful measures, and catching bugs and butterflies. I must say something of Tim, before I go on with my tale.

Master Timothy was first seen in the village one foggy

morning after a dizzling, warm, showery night, when he was detected in a garret, at the extremity of the suburbs, and it was the general supposition that he had rained down in company with a store of little toads that were seen hopping about, as is usual after a shower. Around his garret were disposed a number of unframed pictures, painted on glass, as in the olden time, representing the Four Seasons, the old King of Prussia, and Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick, in their sharppointed cocked hats; the fat, bald-pated Marquis of Granby, the beautiful Constantia Phillips, and divers others, not forgetting the renowned Kitty Fisher, who I honestly confess was my favourite among them all. The whole village poured into the garret to gaze at these chef-d'œuvres, and it is my confirmed opinion, which I shall carry to the grave, that neither the gallery of Florence, Dresden, nor the Louvre, was ever visited by so many real amateurs. Besides the pictures, there was a great many other curiosities, at least curiosities to the simple villagers, who were always sure of being welcomed by Master Tim with a jest, and a tune.

Master Tim, as they came to call him when they got to be a little acquainted, was a rare fellow, such as seldom rains down any where, much less in a country village. He was of "Merry England," as they call it-lucus a non lucendo -at least so he said, and I believe, although he belied his nativity, by being the merriest rogue in the world, even when the fog was at the thickest. In truth, he was ever in a good humour, unless it might be when a rare bug or gorgeous butterfly, that he had followed through thick and thin, escaped his net at last. Then, to be sure, he was apt to call the recreant all the damned vagabonds" he could think of. He was a middle sized man, whose person decreased regularly, from the crown of his head to the--I was going to say-sole of his foot; but it was only to the commencement of the foot, to speak by the card. The top of his head was broad and flat, and so was his forehead, which took up at least twothirds of his face, that tapered off suddenly to a chin, as sharp as the point of a triangle. His forehead was, indeed, a large field, diversified like the country into which he had rained down, with singular varieties of hill and dale, ravin and water-course. It had as many points as a periwinkle. The brow projected exuberantly, though not heavily, over a pair

of rascally little cross-firing twinkling eyes, that, as the country people said, looked at least nine ways for Sunday. His teeth were white enough, but no two of them were fellows. But his head would have turned the brains of a phrenologist, in exploring the mysteries of its development; it was shaped somewhat like Stony-Point-which every body knows as the scene of a gallant exploit of Pennsylvania Wayne-and had as many abruptnesses and quizzical protuberances to brag about. At the upper extremity of his forehead, as he assured us, he carried his money, in the shape of a piece of silver, three inches long and two wide, inserted there, in consequence of a fracture he got by falling down a precipice in hot chase of a "damned vagabond of a beetle," as he was pleased to call him. Descending towards terrafirma, to wit, his feet, we find his body gradually diminishing to his legs, which were so thin, every body wondered how they could carry the great head; but, like Captain Wattle, each had a foot at the end of it, full as large as the Black Dwarf's. It is so long ago, that I almost forget his costume. All I recollect is, that he never wore boots or pantaloons, but exhibited his spindles in all weathers, in worstead stockings, and his feet in shoes, gorgeously caparisoned in a pair of square silver buckles, the only pieces of finery he ever displayed.

In the merry months of spring and summer, and early in autumn Master Timothy was most of his time chasing bugs and butterflies about the fields, to the utter confusion of the people, who wondered what he could want with such trumpery. Being a genius and an idler by profession, I used to accompany him in these excursions, for he was fond of me, and called me vagabond oftener than he did any body else. He had a little net of green gauze, so constructed as to open and shut as occasion required, to entrap the small fry, and a box with a cork bottom, with which he impaled his prisoners with the true scientific barbarity of sticking a pin into them. Thus equipped, this Don Quixotte of bug-catchers, with myself, his faithful esquire, would sally out of a morning into the clovered meadows and flower dotted fields, over brook, through tangled copse and briery dell, in chase of these gentlemen commoners of nature. Ever and anon, as he came upon some little retired nook, where nature, like a modest virgin, shrouded her

beauties from the common view-a rocky glen, romantic cottage, rustic bridge, or brawling stream, he would take out his little port-folio, and pointing me to some conspicuous station to animate his little landscape, sketch it and me together, with a mingled taste and skill I have never since seen equalled. I figure in all his landscapes, although he often called me a vagabond, because he could not drill me into picturesque attitudes. But the finest sport for me, was to watch him creeping slily after a humming-bird-the object of his most intense desires-half buried in the bliss of the dewy honeysuckle, and just as he was on the point of covering it with his net, to see the little vagrant flit away with a swiftness that made it invisible. It was an invaluable sight to see Master Timothy stand wiping his continent of a forehead, and blessing the bird for a "damned vagabond." These were pleasant times, and at this moment recall them, I hardly know why, with a melancholy, yet pleasing delight.

During the winter season, Master Timothy was usually employed in the day-time, painting pleasure sleighs, which at that period it was the fashion among the farmers to have as fine as fiddles. Timothy was a desperate hand at a true lover's knot, a cipher, or a wreath of flowers-and as for a blazing sun-he painted one for the squire, that was seriously suspected of melting all the snow in ten miles round. He would go ten or a dozen miles to paint a sleigh, and always carried his materials on a board upon the top of his head ;-it was before the invention of high crowned hats. Destiny had decreed he should follow this trade, and nature had provided him a head on purpose; it was as flat as a pancake. In the long winter evenings, it was his pleasure to sit by the fireside, and tell enormous stories to groups of horror-struck listeners. I never knew a man that had seen so many ghosts in his day, as Master Tim Canty. Peace to his ashes- he is dead, and if report is to be credited, is sometimes seen on moonlight nights in the church-yard, with his little green gauze net, chasing moths and beetles, as he was wont in past times.

But it is high time to return to my story; for I honestly confess I never think of honest Tim that I don't grow as garrulous as an old lady, talking about the revolution and the yagers. In all country villages I ever saw or heard of whenever anything strange, new, horrible, or delightful, happens,