and shrubbery had grown around and over it, from the double-bass in the coffin. The sexton partly concealing it. determined to open the case. He stooped over it and listened. He thought he heard inside a sound like putting a key into a padlock. "He mustn't lock himself in," he said, and instantly wrenched open the cover. As he approached it, Shrowdwell observed with amazement that the door was open, and a dense phosphorescent light lit up the interior. "Oh," he said, "the poor insane gentleman has contrived somehow to get a key to this vault, and has gone in there to commit suicide, and bury himself in his queer coffin-and save the expense of having an undertaker. I must save him, if possible, from such a fate." As he stood deliberating, he heard the musical sounds again. They came not only from the vault, but from all around. There was the hoarse groaning of a double-bass, answered now and then by a low muffled wail of horns and a scream of flutes, mingled with the pathetic complainings of a violin. Shrowdwell began to think he was dreaming, and rubbed his eyes and his ears to see if he were awake. After considerable tuning and running up and down the scales, the instruments fell into an accompaniment to the double-bass in Beethoven's celebrated song "In questa temba oscura D'inutile vellen!" The tone was as if the air were played on the harmonic intervals of the instrument, and yet was so weirdly and so wonderfully like a human voice, that Shrowdwell felt as if he had got into some enchanted circle. As the solo drew to its conclusion, the voice that seemed to be in it broke into sobs, and ended in a deep groan. But the undertaker summoned up his courage, and determined to probe this mystery to the bottom. Coming nearer the vault and looking in, what should he see but the big musical coffin of the cadaverous stranger lying just inside the entrance of the tomb. The undertaker was convinced that the strange gentleman was the performer of the solo. But where was the instrument? He mustered courage to speak, and was about to offer some comforting and encouraging words. But at the first sound of his voice the lid of the musical coffin, which had been open, slammed to, so suddenly, that the sexton jumped back three feet, and came near tumbling over a tombstone behind him. At the same time the dim phosphorescent light in the vault was extinguished, and there was another groan Immediately there was a noise like the snapping of strings and the cracking of light wood -then a strange sizzling sound—and then a loud explosion. And the undertaker lay senseless on the ground. Mrs. Shrowdwell waited for her husband till a late hour, but he did not return. She grew very anxious, and at last determined to put on her bonnet and shawl and step over to Mr. Spindles' boarding-house to know where he could be. That young gentleman was just about retiring, in a very nervous state, after having taken a strong nipper of brandy and water to restore his equanimity. Mrs. Shrowdwell stated her anxieties, and Spindles told her something of the occurrences of the evening. She then urged him to go at once to a policestation and obtain two or three of the town watchmen to visit the graveyard with lanterns and pistols; which, after some delay and demurring on the part of the guardians of the night, and a promise of a reward on the part of Mrs. Shrowdwell, they consented to do. After some searching the watchmen found the vault, and in front of it poor Shrowdwell lying on his back in a senseless state. They sent for a physician, who administered some stimulants, and gradually brought him to his senses, and upon his legs. He couldn't give any clear account of the adventure. The vault door was closed, and the moonlight lay calm upon the white stones, and no sounds were heard but the wind, now softly purring among the pines and cedars. They got him home, and, to his wife's joy, found him uninjured. He made light of the affair-told her of the bank-note he had received for the musical coffin, and soon fell soundly asleep. Next morning he went to his iron safe to reassure himself about the bank-note-for he had an uncanny dream about it. To his amazement and grief it was gone, and in its place was a piece of charred paper. The undertaker lost himself in endless speculations about this strange adventure, and be gan to think there was diabolical witchcraft in the whole business, after all. One day, however, looking over the parish record, he came upon some facts with regard to the Italian family who had owned that vault. On comparing these notes with the re miniscences of one or two of the older inha- | the two other young men (none of whom acbitants of Boggsville, he made out something companied Shrowdwell in this visit), that like the following history:everything happened just as I have related it. Putnam's Magazine (New York). Signor Domerico Pietri, an Italian exile of noble family, had lived in that town some fifty years since. He was of an unsocial, morose disposition, and very proud. His income was small, and his only son Ludovico, who had decided musical talent, determined to seek his fortune in the larger cities, as a performer on the double-bass. It was said his execution on the harmonic notes was something marvellous. But his father opposed his course, either from motives of family pride, or wishing him to engage in commerce; and one day, during an angry dispute with him, banished him from his house. Very little was known of Ludovico Pietri. He lived a wandering life, and suffered from poverty. Finally all trace was lost of him. The old man died, and was buried, along with other relatives, in the Italian vault. The authorities of the Dutch church had permitted this, on Signor Domerico's renouncing Romanism, and joining the Protestants. But there was a story told of a performer on the double-bass, who played such wild, passionate music, and with such skill, that in his lonely garret, one night, the devil appeared, and offered him a great bag of gold for his big fiddle-proposing at the same time that he should sign a contract that he would not play any more during his lifetime-except at his (the fiend's) bidding. The musician, being very poor, accepted the offer and signed the contract, and the devil vanished with his big fiddle. But afterward the poor musician repented the step he had taken, and took it so to heart that he became insane and died. Now, whether this strange visitor to Mr. Shrowdwell's coffin establishment, who walked the earth in this unhappy frame of mind, was a live man, or the ghost of the poor maniac, was a question which could not be satisfactorily settled. Some hopeless unbelievers. said that the strange big fiddle-case was a box of nitroglycerine or fulminating powder, or an infernal machine; while others as firmly believed that YOU REMEMBER THE MAID. You remember the maid with her dark-brown hair And you have not forgot how we watched with delight Till she grew in our eyes to a vision of light, And we thought her a spirit from heaven! And your heart can recall-and mine often goes back, When we gaz'd on her form, as she follow'd the track But she wander'd away from the home of her youth, For she fancied the world was a temple of truth, And she measured all hearts by her own! She fed on a vision and lived on a dream, And she follow'd it over the wave; And she sought-where the moon has a milder gleam, For a home-and they gave her a grave! There was one whom she loved, though she breathed if to none, For love of her soul was a part; And he said he loved her, but he left her alone, And hung o'er her form as it faded away, there was something supernatural and uncanny She never complain'd-but she loved to the last! about the affair, but ventured no philosophical theory in the case. And as for the undertaker, he was such a hopeless sceptic all his life, that he at last came to the conclusion that he must have been dreaming when he had that adventure in the graveyard; and this notwithstanding William Spindles' repeated declarations, and those of And the tear in her beautiful eye Often told that her thoughts were gone back to the past, But mercy came down, and the maid is at rest, T. K. HIERVEY. BOTHWELL CASTLE. Ruins and romance have a poetical affinity, which, to the observer, although sometimes sad, is always pleasing. Nowhere is this affinity more perfect than in the precincts of the fine ruins of Bothwell Castle and the old Priory of Blantyre on the Clyde. Wood and water, landscape and memorable associations, combine to endow the place with present beauty and the shadows of past glories. We stand in the midst of a smooth-shaven lawn, the river flowing at our feet; we lift our eyes and, through the surrounding foliage, catch glimpses of the fantastic films of distant smoke-all indicative of the taste, business, and progress of our own day: we take a few steps and stand amidst the tombstones of dead centuries, the mind filled with vague visions of the men and events associated with them in history or fable. There was the first Master of Bothwell, Walter Olifard, who, ever so long ago, when the second Alexander was King of Scots, dealt out justice in his own rough, and, let us hope, fairly honest way to the inhabitants of the Lothians. After him came the family of the Murrays; and they were succeeded by the English Edward's doughty knight, Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke. It was he who held sway in the stirring times when Wallace was struggling for the liberties of his country, and earning all the undying fame which can be given by a nation's love and a nation's song and legend. In this same castle, says the story, De Valence opened negotiations with the faithless Sir John Menteith for the betrayal of his friend and chief, Wallace. For his share in this conspiracy tradition visited De Valence with a heavy punishment, for it tells us that "this earl (Pembroke) seemed to have a divine interdict depending over him;" he never prospered after, and he fell in a tournament on his bridal morning, thus leaving his unhappy lady "maid, bride, and widow." It is amusing to note, however, that he had been wed twice before. Then came the triumph of Bruce, and he gave the castle to his sister Christian's husband, Andrew Murray, Lord Bothwell. With their granddaughter the castle passed to the hands of Archibald, the Grim Douglas, and remained with that family until forfeited by them in the time of James II. Lord Crichton was the next Master of Bothwell; and now the lands begin to be divided, for his lordship parted with the moor and forest to Lord Hamilton in exchange for the lands of Kingswell. After Crichton appears Lord Monipenny; he enjoyed possession for a space during the minority of the third James, who, upon attaining his majority, altered his mind about the destination of Bothwell, took it from the then owner and gave it to his favourite, Sir John Ramsay. The latter was the same John Ramsay who, when the king's favourites were hung at Lauder, saved his neck by clinging to the king's knees and crying for mercy: his youth, his abject terror, and the king's supplication, induced the fierce barons to spare his life. Ramsay was subsequently involved in some very ugly. looking transactions with the English court, threatening the life of the Scottish monarch. Be that as it may, the fourth James gave the castle to Adam Hepburn, the forebear of the most famous or infamous of the Earls of Bothwell-he who bears the blame of Darnley's murder, and who married Darnley's unfer tunate widow. Francis Stewart, son of the Abbot of Kelso (the latter was a natural son of James V.), became the next possessor; but be, too, forfeited the estate, which was bestowed upon the Lairds of Buccleugh and Roxburgh, from whom the Marquis of Hamilton acquired the superiority and patronage of the lordship. The Earl of Angus obtained the castle and a third of the lordship in exchange for the lordship of Liddisdale; and he and his son Archibald, early in the seventeenth century, began to dispose of part of the land in feus, retaining. however, the castle and mains of Bothwell For a short time Archibald, Earl of Forfarwho died of wounds received at Sherriffmuirenjoyed possession of the castle and mains a his patrimonial portion; but on his death they reverted to the Douglas family. What vicissitudes, what tragedies and come dies, what petty speculations, and what grand passions lie under this list of the changes of years! What a gay time there must have been in the castle during the twenty-six days spent there by Edward III.; and what a commotion when, two years later, the Scots besieged the place and took it from the English. As a contrast we have the Marquis of Montrose, showing his respect for learning, sitting there in the midst of turmoil, and burdened with the anxieties of his high enterprise, calmly writing a pass for Drummond of Hawthornden, so that the poet might move in safety throughout his camp. It would be curious to compare the impression the scene made upon the poet of the seventeenth century with the experiences of the poet of our own century. Here is what Wordsworth thought of Bothwell and its surroundings: |