a distance of four hundred miles, is not more than one thirty-sixth part of a penny.' When this was once made clearly known to the people of London and Edinburgh, it was not likely that they would be long content to pay a shilling or upwards. It was not likely that rich merchants would be content; and much less the multitude to whom a shilling was a prohibitory duty on correspondence. It would strike them all that if government received such a profit as this on the transmission of letters, the government must be getting much too rich at the expense of letter-writers, and to the injury of persons who would fain write letters if they could. If it appeared, however, that the revenue from the post-office was unaccountably small-that it was diminishing in actual amount instead of increasing with the spread of population-it was clear that the Postoffice could not be so perfect as it thought itself; that it was not answering its purpose; that whatever might be its mismanagement and consequent expensiveness, there must also be an enormous amount of smuggling letters. And the facts were so. Between the years 1815 and 1835, the Post-office annual revenue had declined; while, on its own existing terms, it ought, from the increase of population, to have risen £507,700 from the mere increase of population it ought to have risen thus much, without regard to the improvement of education, and the spread of commerce, which had taken place in these twenty years. increasing, while every other branch of the national income was declining or stationary. And from our own country the blessing is reaching many more; and cheap postage is becoming established in one nation after another, extending the benefits of the invention among myriads of men who have not yet heard the name of its author. The poet's shilling given in the Lake District was well laid out! WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT. A love of natural history and poetry, great industry, and a happy talent for description, distinguish these popular writers, originally members of the Society of Friends. Mary Botham was a native of Uttoxeter, county of Stafford; William Howitt was born in 1795, at Heanor, in Derbyshire. They were married in 1823, and the same year they published, in conjunction, The Forest Minstrel, a series of poems. In the preface is the following statement: "The history of our poetical bias is simply what we believe, in reality, to be that of many others. Poetry has been our youthful amusement, and our increasing daily enjoyment in happy, and our solace in sorrowful hours. Amidst the vast and delicious treasures of our The way to deal with smuggling is now very well national literature, we have revelled with growing understood. To extinguish smuggling it is necessary to and unsatiated delight; and at the same time, lower duties to the point which makes smuggling not living chiefly in the quietness of the country, we worth while. In some of the most populous districts of have watched the changing features of nature; we England it was believed that the number of letters have felt the secret charm of those sweet but unillegally conveyed by carriers, and delivered in an awk- ostentatious images which she is perpetually preward and irregular sort of way at the cost of a penny senting, and given full scope to those workings of each, far exceeded that of the letters sent through the the imagination and of the heart, which natural Post-office. The penny posts established in towns were beauty and solitude prompt and promote. The found to answer well. Putting together these and a hundred other facts with that of the actual cost of trans-natural result was the transcription of those images mission of an Edinburgh letter, Mr Hill proposed to reduce the cost of all letters not exceeding half an ounce in weight to a penny. The shock to the Post-office of such an audacious proposal was extreme; and so was the amazement of the public at the opening of such a prospect. As the actual cost of transmission to any part of the kingdom reached by the mail was less than a farthing, the penny rate might be made uniform-to the saving of a world of time and trouble-and still the profit or tax would be two hundred per cent. Mr Hill's calculation was, that if the postage could be paid in advance so as to save time and trouble in delivery, and other facilities of communication be established, which he pointed out, and the postage be reduced to a penny for half-ounce letters, the increase in the number of letters, by the stoppage of smuggling, and the new cheapness, must soon be fourfold. When it became fourfold, the net revenue, after defraying the expense of conveying franks and newspapers, would amount to £1,278,000 per annum-a sum only £280,000 less than the existing revenue. As no one supposed that the increase would ultimately be so little as fourfold, there was every prospect that the Post-office revenue would, in a few years, recover its then present amount directly; while it was certain that, under other heads, the revenue must be largely increased through the stimulus given to commerce by improved communication. When Mr Hill proposed his plan, the revenue was in a flourishing state-in a state which would justify such an experiment as this for such ends. It was well that none foresaw the reverse which was at hand, and the long depression which must ensue; for none might have had courage to go into the enterprise. But that reverse served admirably as a test of the reform; and through the long depression which ensued, Mr Hill's plan, though cruelly maimed, and allowed at first no fair chance, worked well while everything else was working ill. The revenue from the Post-office went on steadily and scenes.' A poem in this volume serves to complete a happy picture of studies pursued by a married pair in concert : Away with the pleasure that is not partaken? On our cozy hearthstone, with its innocent glee, And when, as how often, I eagerly listen To stories thou read'st of the dear olden day, And how often in crowds, where a whisper offendeth, How dear is the glance that none else comprehendeth, I love in my mirth to see gladness awaken Mrs Howitt has since published a great variety of works-The Seven Temptations, a dramatic poem, 1834; Wood Leighton, a novel; The Heir of West Wayland; and several volumes both in prose and verse for children. The attention of Mr and Mrs Howitt having been drawn to the Swedish language, they studied it with avidity, and Mrs Howitt has translated the tales of Frederika | Bremer and the Improvisatore of Hans Christian Andersen, all of which have been exceedingly popular, and now circulate extensively both in England and America. Mr Howitt has been a still more voluminous writer. His happiest works are those devoted to rural description. The Book of the Seasons, 1831, delineates the picturesque and poetical features of the months, and all the objects and appearances which the year presents in the garden, the field, and the waters. An enthusiastic lover of his subject, Mr Howitt is remarkable for the fullness and variety of his pictorial sketches, the richness and purity of his fancy, and the occasional force and eloquence of his language. Love of the Beautiful. If I could but arouse in other minds (he says) that ardent and ever-growing love of the beautiful works of God in the creation, which I feel in myself-if I could but make it in others what it has been to me The nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul if I could open to any the mental eye which can never be again closed, but which finds more and more clearly revealed before it beauty, wisdom, and peace in the splendours of the heavens, in the majesty of seas and mountains, in the freshness of winds, the everchanging lights and shadows of fair landscapes, the solitude of heaths, the radiant face of bright lakes, and the solemn depths of woods, then, indeed, should I rejoice. Oh that I could but touch a thousand bosoms with that melancholy which often visits mine, when I behold little children endeavouring to extract amusement from the very dust, and straws, and pebbles of squalid alleys, shut out from the free and glorious countenance of nature, and think how differently the children of the peasantry are passing the golden hours of childhood, wandering with bare heads and unshod feet, perhaps, but singing a 'childish, wordless melody' through vernal lanes, or prying into a thousand sylvan leafy nooks, by the liquid music of running waters, amidst the fragrant heath, or on the flowery lap of the meadow, occupied with winged wonders without end. Oh that I could but baptise every heart with the sympathetic feeling of what the city-pent child is condemned to lose; how blank, and poor, and joyless must be the images which fill its infant bosom, to that of the country one, whose mind Will be a mansion for all lovely forms, I feel, however, an animating assurance that nature will exert a perpetually increasing influence, not only as a most fertile source of pure and substantial pleasurespleasures which, unlike many others, produce, instead of satiety, desire, but also as a great moral agent and what effects I anticipate from this growing taste may be readily inferred, when I avow it as one of the most fearless articles of my creed, that it is scarcely possible for a man in whom its power is once firmly established, to become utterly debased in sentiment or abandoned in principle. His soul may be said to be brought into habitual union with the Author of Nature Haunted for ever by the Eternal Mind. In this spirit Mr Howitt has written The Rural Life of England, two volumes, 1838; The Boy's Country Book; and Visits to Remarkable Places, two volumes; the latter work giving an account of old English halls, battle-fields, and the scenes of striking passages in English history and poetry. Another work of the same kind, The Homes and Haunts of the Poets, 1847, is greatly inferior, being disfigured by inaccuracies and rash dogmatic assertions. Mr Howitt was for some years in business in the town of Nottingham, and a work from his fertile pen, the nature of which is indicated by its name, the History of Priestcraft, 1834, so recommended him to the Dissenters and reformers of that town, that he was made one of their aldermen. Disliking the bustle of public life, Mr Howitt retired from Nottingham, and resided for three years at Esher, in Surrey. Mr and Mrs Howitt then removed to Germany, and after three years' residence in that country, the former published a work on the Social and Rural Life of Germany, which the natives admitted to be the best account of that country ever written by a foreigner. Our industrious author has also translated a work written expressly for him, The Student Life of Germany. After his return, Mr Howitt embarked in periodical literature as a proprietor, but neither The People's Journal nor Howitt's Journal was a successful speculation. He then sailed for Australia, and a two years' residence in that colony enabled him to publish an interesting and comprehensive work, in two volumes, entitled Land, Labour, and Gold, or Two Years in Victoria, with Visits to Sydney and Van Diemen's Land. He has also published The Ruined Castles and Abbeys of Great Britain, 1861; History of the Supernatural; Letters on Transportation, 1863; Discovery in Australia, &c., 1865; The Mad War Planet, and other Poems, 1871. The last was a decided failure. But few writers have displayed greater intellectual activity than Mary and William Howitt, and to the young they have been special benefactors. Mountain Children.-By MARY HOWITT. Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill, No crowd impedes your way, No city wall impedes your further bounds; Where the wild flock can wander, ye may stray The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds. The sunshine and the flowers, And the old trees that cast a solemn shade; The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours, And the green hills whereon your fathers played. The gray and ancient peaks Round which the silent clouds hang day and night;' These are your joys! Go forth— For in his spirit God has clothed the earth, Ye sit upon the earth And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, Moulds your unconscious spirits silently. Hence is it that the lands Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons; Children of pleasant song Are taught within the mountain solitudes; For hoary legends to your wilds belong, And yours are haunts where inspiration broods. Then go forth-earth and sky Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie Mountains.-From The Book of the Seasons. There is a charm connected with mountains, so powerful that the merest mention of them, the merest sketch of their magnificent features, kindles the imagination, and carries the spirit at once into the bosom of their enchanted regions. How the mind is filled with their vast solitude! how the inward eye is fixed on their silent, their sublime, their everlasting peaks! How our heart bounds to the music of their solitary cries, to the tinkle of their gushing rills, to the sound of their cataracts! How inspiriting are the odours that breathe from the upland turf, from the rock-hung flower, from the hoary and solemn pine! how beautiful are those lights and shadows thrown abroad, and that fine, transparent haze which is diffused over the valleys and lower slopes, as over a vast, inimitable picture! At this season of the year [autumn] the ascents of our own mountains are most practicable. The heat of summer has dried up the moisture with which winter rains saturate the spongy turf of the hollows; and the atmosphere, clear and settled, admits of the most extensive prospects. Whoever has not ascended our mountains knows little of the beauties of this beautiful island. Whoever has not climbed their long and heathy ascents, and seen the trembling mountain-flowers, the glowing moss, the richly tinted lichens at his feet; and scented the fresh aroma of the uncultivated sod, and of the spicy shrubs; and heard the bleat of the flock across their solitary expanses, and the wild cry of the mountainplover, the raven, or the eagle; and seen the rich and russet hues of distant slopes and eminences, the livid gashes of ravines and precipices, the white glittering line of falling waters, and the cloud tumultuously whirling round the lofty summit; and then stood panting on that summit, and beheld the clouds alternately gather and break over a thousand giant peaks and ridges of every varied hue, but all silent as images of eternity; and cast his gaze over lakes and forests, and smoking towns, and wide lands to the very ocean, in all their gleaming and reposing beauty-knows nothing of the treasures of pictorial wealth which his own country the wide prospects, and, above all, the simple inhabit ants! How We delight to think of the people of mountainous regions; we please our imaginations with their picturesque and quiet abodes; with their peaceful secluded lives, striking and unvarying costumes, and primitive manners. We involuntarily give to the mountaineer heroic and elevated qualities. He lives amongst noble objects, and must imbibe some of their nobility; he lives amongst the elements of poetry, and must be poetical; he lives where his fellow-beings are far, far separated from their kind, and surrounded by the sternness and the perils of savage nature; his social affections must therefore be proportionably concentrated, his home-ties lively and strong; but, more than all, he lives within the barriers, the strongholds, the very last refuge which Nature herself has reared to preserve alive liberty in the earth, to preserve to man his highest hopes, his noblest emotions, his dearest treasures, his faith, his freedom, his hearth, and his home. glorious do those mountain-ridges appear when we look upon them as the unconquerable abodes of free hearts; as the stern, heaven-built walls from which the few, the feeble, the persecuted, the despised, the helpless child, the delicate woman, have from age to age, in their last perils, in all their weaknesses and emergencies, when power and cruelty were ready to swallow them up, looked down and beheld the million waves of despotism break at their feet; have seen the rage of murderous armies, and tyrants, the blasting spirit of ambition, fanaticism and crushing domination recoil from their bases in despair. "Thanks be to God for mountains!' is often the exclamation of my heart as I trace the history of the world. From age to age they have been the last friends of man. In a thousand extremities they have saved him. What great hearts have throbbed in their defiles from the days of Leonidas to those of Andreas Hofer! What lofty souls, what tender hearts, what poor and persecuted creatures have they sheltered in their stony bosoms from the weapons and tortures of their fellow-men! Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold! was the burning exclamation of Milton's agonised and indignant spirit, as he beheld those sacred bulwarks of freedom for once violated by the disturbing demons of the earth; and the sound of his fiery and lamenting appeal to Heaven will be echoed in every generous soul to the end of time. Thanks be to God for mountains! The variety which they impart to the glorious bosom of our planet were no small advantage; the beauty which they spread out to our vision in their woods and waters, their crags and slopes, their clouds and atmospheric hues, were a splendid gift; the sublimity which they pour into our deepest souls from their majestic aspects; the poetry which breathes from their streams, and dells, and airy heights, from the sweet abodes, the garbs and manners of their inhabitants, the songs and legends which have awoke in them, were a proud heritage to imaginative minds; but what are all these when the thought comes, that without mountains the spirit of man must have bowed to the brutal and the base, and probably have sunk to the monotonous level of the unvaried plain. When I turn my eyes upon the map of the world, and behold how wonderfully the countries where our faith was nurtured, where our liberties were generated, where our philosophy and literature, the fountains of our intellectual grace and beauty, sprang up, were as distinctly walled out by God's hand with mountain ramparts from the eruptions and interruptions of barbarism, as if at the especial prayer of the early fathers of man's destinies, I am lost in an exulting admiration. Look at the bold barriers of Palestine! see how the infant liberties of Greece were sheltered from the vast tribes of the uncivilised North by the heights of Hæmus and Rhodope! behold how the Alps describe their magnificent crescent, inclining their opposite extremities to the Adriatic and Tyrrhene Seas, locking up Italy from the Gallic and Teutonic hordes till the power and spirit of Rome had reached their maturity, and she had opened the wide forest of Europe to the light, spread far her laws and language, and planted the seeds of many mighty nations! Thanks to God for mountains! Their colossal firmness seems almost to break the current of time itself; the geologist in them searches for traces of the earlier world; and it is there, too, that man, resisting the revolutions of lower regions, retains through innumerable years his habits and his rights. While a multitude of changes has remoulded the people of Europe, while languages, and laws, and dynasties, and creeds, have passed over it like shadows over the landscape, the children of the Celt and the Goth, who fled to the mountains a thousand years ago, are found there now, and shew us in face and figure, in language and garb, what their fathers were: shew us a fine contrast with the modern tribes dwelling below and around them; and shew us, moreover, how adverse is the spirit of the mountain to mutability, and that there the fiery heart of freedom is found for ever. Country Rambles-The South of England. From The Rural Life of England. Cross only the south of England, and how delightful were the route to him who has the love of nature and of his country in his heart; and no imperious cares to dispute it with them. Walk up, as I have said, from Salisbury to Stonehenge. Sit down amid that solemn circle, on one of its fallen stones: contemplate the gigantic erection, reflect on its antiquity, and what England has passed through and become while those stones have stood there. Walk forth over that beautiful and immense plain-see the green circles, and lines, and mounds, which ancient superstition or heroism has everywhere traced upon it, and which nature has beautified with a carpet of turf as fine and soft as velvet. Join those simple shepherds, and talk with them. Reflect, poetical as our poets have made the shepherd and his life-what must be the monotony of that life in lowland counties-day after day, and month after month, and year after year-never varying, except from the geniality of summer to winter; and what it must be then, how dreary its long reign of cold, and wet, and snow! When you leave them, plunge into the New Forest in Hampshire. There is a region where a summer month might be whiled away as in a fairy-land. There, in the very heart of that old forest, you find the spot where Rufus fell by the bolt of Tyrell, looking very much as it might look then. All around you lie forest and moorland for many a mile. The fallow and red deer in thousands herd there as of old. The squirrels gambol in the oaks above you; the swine rove in the thick fern and the deep glades of the forest as in a state of nature. The dull tinkle of the cattle-bell comes through the wood; and ever and anon, as you wander forward, you catch the blue smoke of some hidden abode, curling over the tree tops; and come to sylvan bowers, and little bough-overshadowed cottages, as primitive as any that the reign of the Conqueror himself could have shewn. What haunts are in these glades for poets: what streams flow through their bosky banks, to soothe at once the ear and eye enamoured of peace and beauty! What endless groupings and colourings for the painter! At Boldre you may find a spot worth seeing, for it is the parsonage once inhabited by the venerable William Gilpin the descendant of Barnard Gilpin, the apostle of the north-the author of Forest Scenery; and near it is the school, which he built and endowed for the poor from the sale of his drawings. Not very distant from this stands the rural dwelling of one of England's truest hearted women, Caroline Bowles-and not far off you have the woods of Netley Abbey, the Isle of Wight, the Solent, and the open sea. But still move on through the fair fields of Dorset and Somerset, to the enchanted land of Devon. If you want stern grandeur, follow its north-western coast; if peaceful beauty, look down into some one of its rich vales, green as an emerald, and pastured by its herds of red cattle; if all the summer loveliness of woods and rivers, you may ascend the Tamar or the Tavy, or many another stream; or you may stroll on through valleys that for glorious solitudes, or fair English homes amid their woods and hills, shall leave you nothing to desire. If you want sternness and loneliness, you may pass into Dartmoor. There are wastes and wilds, crags of granite, views into far-off districts, and the sounds of waters hurrying away over their rocky beds, enough to satisfy the largest hungering and thirsting after poetical delight. I shall never forget the feelings of delicious entrancement with which I approached the outskirts of Dartmoor. I found myself amongst the woods near Haytor Crags. It was an autumn evening. The sun, near its setting, threw its yellow beams amongst the trees, and lit up the ruddy tors on the opposite side of the valley into a beautiful glow. Below, the deep dark river went sounding on its way with a melancholy music, and as I wound up the steep road all beneath the gnarled oaks, I ever and anon caught glimpses of the winding valley to the left, all beautiful with wild thickets and half shrouded faces of rock, and still on high these glowing ruddy tors standing in the blue air in their sublime silence. My road wound up, and up, the heather and the bilberry on either hand shewing me that cultivation had never disturbed the soil they grew in; and one sole woodlark from the far-ascending forest to the right, filled the wide solitude with his wild autumnal note. At that moment I reached an eminence, and at once saw the dark crags of Dartmoor high aloft before me, and one large solitary house in the valley beneath the woods. So fair, so silent -save for the woodlark's note and the moaning riverso unearthly did the whole scene seem, that my imagination delighted to look upon it as an enchanted land, and to persuade itself that that house stood as it would stand for ages, under the spell of silence, but beyond the reach of death and change. But even there you need not rest-there lies a land of gray antiquity, of desolate beauty still before youCornwall. It is a land almost without a tree. That is, all its high and wild plains are destitute of them, and the bulk of its surface is of this character. Some sweet and sheltered vales it has, filled with noble wood, as that of Tresillian near Truro; but over a great portion of it extend gray heaths. It is a land where the wild furze seems never to have been rooted up, and where the huge masses of stone that lie about its hills and valleys are clad with the lichen of centuries. And yet how does this bare and barren land fasten on your imagination! It is a country that seems to have retained its ancient attachments longer than any other. The British tongue here lingered till lately-as the ruins of King Arthur's palace still crown the stormy steep of Tintagel; and the saints that succeeded the heroic race, seem to have left their names on almost every town and village. It were well worth a journey there merely to see the vast mines which perforate the earth, and pass under the very sea; and the swarming population that they employ. It were a beautiful sight to see the bands of young maidens, that sit beneath long sheds, crushing the ore, and singing in chorus. But far more were it worth the trip to stand at the Land's-End, on that lofty, savage, and shattered coast, with the Atlantic roaring all around you. The Hebrides themselves, wild and desolate, and subject to obscuring mists as they are, never made me feel more shipped into a dream-land than that scenery. At one moment the sun shining over the calm sea, in whose transparent depths the tawny rocks were seen far down. Right and left extend the dun cliffs and cavernous precipices, and at their feet the white billows playing gracefully to and fro over the nearly sunken rocks, as through the manes of huge sealions. At the next moment all wrapt in the thickest obscurity of mist; the sea only cognisable by its sound; the dun crags looming through the fog vast and awfully, and all round you on the land nothing visible, as you trace back your way, but huge gray stones that strew the whole earth. In the midst of such a scene I came to a little deserted hut, standing close by a solitary mere amongst the rocks, and the dreamy effect became most perfect. What a quick and beautiful contrast was it to this, as the very same night I pursued my way along the shore, the clear moon hanging on the distant horizon, the waves of the ocean on one hand coming up all luminous and breaking on the strand in billows of fire, and on the other hand the sloping turf sown with glow-worms for some miles, thick as the stars overhead. I speak of the delight which a solitary man may gather up for ever from such excursions; that will come before him again and again in all their beauty from his past existence, into many a crowd and many a solitary room; but how much more may be reaped by a congenial band of affectionate spirits in such a course. To them, a thousand different incidents or odd adventures, flashes of wit and moments of enjoyment combine to quicken both their pleasures and friendship. The very flight from a shower, or the dining on a turnip-pie, no very uncommon dish in the rural inns of Cornwall, may furnish merriment for the future. And if this one route would be a delicious summer's ramble, with all its coasting and its seaports into the bargain, how many such stretch themselves in every direction through England. The fair orchard-scenes of Hereford and Worcester, in spring all one region of bloom and fragrance-the hills of Malvern and the Wrekin. The fairy dales of Derbyshire; the sweet forest and pastoral scenes of Staffordshire; the wild dales, the scars and tarns of Yorkshire; the equally beautiful valleys and hills of Lancashire, with all those quaint old halls that are scattered through it, memorials of past times, and all connected with some incident or other of English history. And then there is Northumberland-the classic ground of the ancient ballad-the country of the Percy-of Chevy Chace-of the Hermit of Warkworth-of Otterburn and Humbledown of Flodden, and many another stirring scene. And besides all these are the mountain regions of Cumberland, of Wales, of Scotland, and Ireland, that by the power of steam, are being brought every day more within the reach of thousands. What an inexhaustible wealth of beauty lies in those regions! These, if every other portion of the kingdom were reduced by ploughing and manufacturing and steaming to the veriest commonplace, these, in the immortal strength of their nature, bid defiance to the efforts of any antagonist or reducing spirit. These will still remain wild and fair, the refuge and haunt of the painter and the poet-of all lovers of beauty, and breathers after quiet and freshness. Nothing can pull down their lofty and scathed heads; nothing can dry up those everlasting waters, that leap down their cliffs and run along their vales in gladness; nothing can certainly exterminate those dark heaths, and drain off those mountain lakes, where health and liberty seem to dwell together; nothing can efface the loveliness of those regions, save the hand of Him who placed them there. I rejoice to think that while this great nation remains, whatever may be the magnitude of the designs for the good of the world in which Providence purposes to employ it-however populous it may be necessary for it to become-whatever the machinery and manufactories that may be needfully at work in it; that while Cumberland, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland continue, there will continue regions of indestructible beauty-of free and unpruned nature, so fair that those who are not satisfied therewith, would not be satisfied with the whole universe. More sublimity other countries may boast, more beauty has fallen to the lot of none on God's globe. REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN. This gentleman (born at Comrie, in Perthshire, in 1813) is author of a number of works, critical and biographical. The best known of these is his Gallery of Literary Portraits, the first portion published in 1845, a second in 1849, and a third in 1855. In the interval between the successive appearance of these volumes, Mr Gilfillan published The Bards of the Bible, 1850; The Book of British Poesy, 1851; The Martyrs, Heroes, and Bards of the Scottish Covenant, 1852; &c. In 1856 he published The History of a Man-a singular melange of fancy sketches and biographical facts; and in the following year, Christianity and our Era; in 1864, Martyrs and Heroes of the Scottish Covenant; in 1867, Night (a poem in blank verse, by no means a happy effort of the author); and the same year a volume of biographies, entitled Remoter Stars in the Church Sky; in 1869, Modern Christian Heroes; in 1871, Life of Sir Walter Scott. Mr Gilfillan has also been a large contributor to periodical works, and has edited a series of the British Poets. At the the United Presbyterian Church in Dundee, and same time he discharges the duties of a pastor of has published several volumes of sermons and discourses. The industry of Mr Gilfillan is a remarkable and honourable feature in his character; and his writings, though too often disfigured by rash judgments and a gaudy rhetorical style, have an honest warmth and glow of expression which attest the writer's sincerity, while they occasionally present striking and happy illustrations. From his very unequal pages, many felicitous images and metaphors might be selected. Lochnagar and Byron. We remember a pilgrimage we made some years ago to Lochnagar. As we ascended, a mist came down over the hill, like a veil dropped by some jealous beauty over her own fair face. At length the summit was reached, though the prospect was denied us. It was a proud and thrilling moment. What though darkness was all around? It was the very atmosphere that suited the scene. It was 'dark Lochnagar.' And only think how fine it was to climb up and clasp its cairnto lift a stone from it, to be in after-time a memorial of our journey-to sing the song which made it terrible and dear, in its own proud drawing-room, with those great fog-curtains floating around-to pass along the brink of its precipices-to snatch a fearful joy, as we leaned over and hung down, and saw far beneath the gleam of eternal snow shining up from its hollows, and columns, or rather perpendicular seas of mist, streaming up upon the wind Like foam from the roused ocean of deep hell, Where every wave breaks on a living shore — tinged, too, here and there, on their tops, by gleams of sunshine, the farewell beams of the dying day. It was the grandest moment in our lives. We had stood upon many hills-in sunshine and in shade, in mist and in thunder-but never had before, nor hope to have again, such a feeling of the grandeur of this lower universe-such a sense of horrible sublimity. Nay, we question if there be a mountain in the empire, which, though seen in similar circumstances, could awaken the same emotions in our minds. It is not its loftiness, though that be great-nor its bold outline, nor its savage loneliness, nor its mist-loving precipices, but the associations which |