We have somewhat of a taste for scenery, and are often charmed and entranced with the gay fields, the towering mountains, the bleak desert, the dark forests, the lonely dells, and the crystal rills. All this is pleasant beyond expression in the balmy days of summer, and in the sweet sunshine which gilds the landscape with golden lustre, and brings out in full revelation points of beauty otherwise in discernible; but neither are we insensible to the enchantments of the raving tempest, when the scowling heavens meet the earth in angry turmoil, and when the solitary glens cower before the majesty of the terrible blast, sweeping through the narrow outlets and conveying terror and desolation to the plains below. We like to hear the crashing of the woods bending under the burden of the storm, the roaring torrent gushing impetuously adown the abrupt ravines, and tossing the foam of its troubled waters back in the face of those clouds whose treasures give it its very being-all, all is acceptable, and everything is beautiful in its season. hovered not long alone, for it was soon joined by others, and by others again, as if they came to do the monarch homage; when, all melting into one in a brief space, the rain came down, and, ere one short hour had passed, a shower, shaken from the skirts of that same cloud, stretching itself and expanding along the heavens, fell upon ourselves. In the west the summits of the spiky Arran shot far up into the air, and pierced the fleecy clouds that floated past them on the gentle breeze. Arran, reposing on its watery couch in the ocean, stretches its long lazy length to the south, inviting abundance of waters, which descend in impetuous flood upon its rocky heights, and then dismisses its clouds in broken masses one after another in thick succession, to irrigate the thirsty fields of the mainland. How calm the scene! the glassy sea reflecting the image of ragged peaks far across the blue deep, like the pinnacles and battlements of an ancient feudal fortress on the brow of a beetling rock, in the waters of the spacious fosse by which it is surrounded. The eye, stretching over the almost entire breadth and length of Ayrshire, comes round to the south, and rests on the sombre heights of the lonely Afton, the precipitous sides of which, along almost the whole extent of its tortuous glen, run sheer down to the margin of the stream which murmurs in the bottom. But there was a scene which lay nearer our feet, and which imparted to us a far more lively interest than even the splendid and far-reaching prospect which lay in all its amplitude before us, and that was the desert moors of Kyle-old Kyle in the retreat of the wilderness-Kyle's misty solitudes-Kyle far remote from the dwellings of sacred silence, in the dreary mosshags, in the cold dripping caves, in the dense hazel wood, and in the dark sides of the deep ravine, the wanderers of the covenant, who erst sought a refuge here from the fierce ire of the persecutor. No wilderness can be conceived more absolute than thisa dismal plain of desolate heath, reaching onwards for miles on miles, embracing the greater part of what is called Ayr's Moss, in the bosom of which sleep the martyred bodies of Richard Cameron and eight of his associates, slaughtered by Bruce of Earlshail; and a little farther on is the resting-place of the saintly Priesthill, who fell by the murderous hand of Clavers and his troopers. No human habitation is to be seen, save here and there a lonely shepherd's hut cowering in the waste, and sending up a column of blue smoke into the still bluer firmament; and yet it was exhilarating to gaze on the gorgeous heath all in the full flush of its purple bloom, and the hills around all glowing as with fire, so ruddy were they with the sweet heather-bells; and then there was the booming of the wild mountain-bees, hurrying past on wings of music. Having recently traversed a portion of the romantic Highlands, we felt a strong desire to survey certain parts of the more southern districts, and the consideration then was, on what particular locality shall we make our descent? At length the upper ward of fair Nithsdale was fixed on as being a field of no small traditionary interest, as well as of local grandeur, although it has not hitherto been adopted as the scene of tourists. Shall we promise our readers a rich repast? That we cannot say, because the appreciation of descriptive scenery and of local incidents is very much a thing of taste, and taste is somewhat capricious; but if it be a generous thing to remember the forgotten, and an act of justice to drag from obscurity un-men-Kyle that concealed, in the deepest loneliness, in known worth in character, it is surely no less an appropriate thing to place in public view what may have hitherto been unnoticed in regard to scenes of rich beauty and magnificence or wild grandeur in unfrequented localities, and which would amply repay the casual visitant. Traditionists, it is true, have glanced an eager eye athwart this field, and have enticed from their shy retreats things worthy of memorial, which only whet the appetite for the discovery of more. But who can depict the scene, as it spreads itself for the first time before us? Depict the scene! Shoot an arrow over the arch of the rainbow! But we are rambling. We commence our notices, then, at the head of the vale of the Nith, at the village of New Cumnock. This village is in Ayrshire, and consists of three detached clusters of houses. It contains a handsome church, a comfortable inn, and two or three buildings of the better sort. The inn, the chief object in this spot to travellers, is kept by a worthy woman, who affords good fare at an ordinary price; and truly the bracing air of this upland district has a tendency to impart an edge to the appetite, so that ample justice is commonly done to the substantial cheer of our kindly hostess. In our progress down the valley we took the road which leads along the north side of the dale, and which, wending over the summits of the eminences, affords the finest view. In the direction of our route, about three miles below the village, we encountered the towering height of Corsincon, rendered classical by the aliusions of the great Ayrshire bard. As the road sweeps round the neck of this verdurous hill, with its ancient cairn pitched right atop, we resolved to scramble to its summit. The ascent was not difficult, and in a few minutes we stood beside the cairn, and next on its very apex, and what a sight! What a scene now spread itself before us! We were taken by an utter surprise, for we had entertained not the most distant anticipations of what our eyes then beheld. The whole country, west, and north, and south, opened on our gaze in one spacious field. Far in the blue distance was seen the lofty Ben Lomond, towering by his glassy lake, presiding over that beauteous inland field of waters, studded with many a tufted island, like spots on the bosom of a polished mirror. There stood Ben Lomond in the far distance of many a weary mile, with a round gilded cloud hovering above his summit like a crown of burnished gold about to descend softly on a monarch's brow. There that little cloud hovered, but it Wardlaw and Cairntable, two celebrated heights, rear their heathy summits in the vicinity of the ancient Muirkirk of Kyle;' and in the intervening space lies Glenmuir's wild solitudes, lengthened and deep,'-a vale sweet to the shepherds, and rendered classic by a bard of their own order, Hislop of gentle memory, who wrote the Cameronian's Dream,' which earned for him no small fame at the time, and which since has been placed among the undying lyrics of the age. Oh, Hislop, we knew thee well! thy memory is dear to us, thy name thrills our inmost soul; but thou wert cut off in the bloom of life, and thy ashes have found a resting place at the bottom of the great deep. This valley cleaves the moorlands, and ploughs its lovely way past the old fabled Castle of Kyle, which stands on a projecting angle at the meeting of two mossy streams. This feudal hold is now in ruins, and many an incident of exciting interest has befallen it in the remoter times of its history. But what was more interesting to us still was the statement that the shepherds in these solitudes meet by turns in each other's houses for religious converse and the worship of God. They are a race of rare men, and worthy descendants of a covenanting ancestry, whose memory they cherish with the warmest veneration. In this way they open wells in the desert, from which they drink the pure waters of a heavenly consolation, and are refreshed and stimulated in their pilgrimage. It was these wilds of Kyle which were the scene of the following tale, so strongly illustrative of the state of things and incidents frequently occurring in the dark days of persecution. It was at the commencement of winter, and a heavy snow had descended on the moorland. On the night previous to the storm, two of the wanderers had found their way to a shepherd's cottage to seek a retreat for the night. They were kindly admitted by the hospitable inmates. In the morning, when the shepherd looked out on the moors, the whole face of the wilderness was covered with snow to the depth of several feet, and the drift was streaming before the roaring winds. There is no fear of you this morning,' said he to his guests; you are as secure from the troopers as in the most impregnable stronghold.' It happened that the wind blew straight in the front of the house, and, striking violently against the wall, rebounded in the face of the blast, and formed a narrow space like a deep trench between the base of the wall and the drifted snow in the front. In this narrow footpath one person could walk with ease. As the friends within the dwelling were conversing together, deeming themselves in perfect security, a loud rap was heard at the door, and then another and another with increased impetuosity. Was this the approach of troopers? Was their house besieged, even in the midst of the tempest? The humble cottagers were alarmed, for in those precarious times no man could calculate on what might happen at any time, so strange were the incidents that sometimes befell. What was to be done? To open the door might admit an enemy, or it might be an act of mercy to some hapless stranger; but how could friend or foe be abroad on such a morning as this? The thing seemed impossible. At length it was agreed that, happen what might, the door should be opened. Accordingly, the shepherd, with the men at his back, proceeded to unbolt the door, which, when opened in the face of the wind and drift, admitted an object in the shape of an oblong snow-ball, that rushed past them into the interior, and stayed not till it reached the hearth. The astonishment of the party was extreme; but it was soon allayed when it was found that the intruder was a pet lamb which harboured about the house, and which, on the preceding night, had been accidentally shut out, and was, therefore, forced to traverse the narrow space between the wall and the snow-wreath till the morning dawned, when it found shelter in the hut by beating at the door. If the friends within felt secure before, they considered themselves doubly so now, and enjoyed the repose which providence afforded them without fear. Wild as the scene was, we could hardly withdraw our eyes from it, owing to the associations of the olden time, which we had gleaned from history and from tradition. On looking down the vale of the Nith from our station by the old grey cairn, we were struck with the windings of that beautiful stream as it crept along its level course. It bore a strong resemblance to the links of the Forth in the vicinity of Stirling, though on a much smaller scale. Below in the valley, and near the side of the highway, our attention was directed to a neat monument recently erected, which marked the resting-place of two witnesses, Hair and Corson, who were shot by Claverhouse and his dragoons; the soldiers having been attracted to the hiding-place of the Covenanters by the voice of praise, as they were engaged in devotional exercises in a green hollow near the base of the hill. We now left the cairn and proceeded onward in the direction of Kirkconnel. The scenery to the north of this village is very fine; the heights are steep and green, and covered with flocks of sheep. An old deserted churchyard lies at the bottom of the mountains, and near the mouth of the beautiful Glen Aylmer. This glen has scarcely its equal in all the regions of the west. It is a deep and narrow pass, which cleaves the mountains like the famous defile of Tempe between Ossa and Olympus. A streamlet like a thread of silver wends its way in the bottom, only there are no fragrant shrubs nor shady trees to screen the loiterer from the burning sun; but it is a lovely scene-a scene enough to hush the troubled mind into a sweet and holy tranquillity. It was down the steep declivity of this charming glen that a worthy Covenanter, placed on horseback behind a trooper, on the way to be shot on a verdant spot on the brow of the hill, slid from his seat, rolled like a snow-ball to the bottom, and escaped a cruel death. We roamed a while in the desolate churchyard among the monuments of the dead in quest of old inscriptions or any other remnant of antiquity, but nothing of consequence was to be found-only a grave-stone of the eleventh century. But we had not time to linger here; our object was to reach the town of Sanquhar before the night set in. The locality around this little town is the chief object of interest in the upper parts of Nithsdale. It is a place of no small traditionary renown and local incident; and, after a night's repose, we resolved to pursue our researches in the morning. Sanquhar is an ancient royal burgh, created by James VI. in 1596. The town owes its origin to the Celtic times, and it gradually increased under the sheltering wing of its castle at the southern extremity. It contains a number of good houses, and part of its main street presents as good an appearance as any little town in the west of Scotlari, the houses having been mostly rebuilt within the last thirty years. The inhabitants are remarkable for their general intelligence; they are a reading community; the town possesses an excellent library, containing nearly two thousand volumes, besides a handsome reading-room, furnished with a goodly variety of newspapers and other periodicals. There are four churches in the place-two of the United Presbyterian, one of the Free Church, and the Established Church, besides two small societies of Baptists and Reformed Presbyterians. The ruinous castle, anciently denominated Crichton Peel from the name of the baron, stands at the foot of the town. It cannot be less than six hundred years old. It was inhabited, if not built, by Edgar, the son of Dunegal of Moredun or Morton, chieftain of Stranith, and head of the clan M'Gowan, that occupied the locality of the ancient Selgavae. This stronghold, it appears, has had several proprietors in different ages, and not a few curious and striking things are connected with its history. Near the close of the thirteenth century it was in the possession of the English, when all the castles from the town of Carlisle to Ayr were in the same occupancy. Captain Beuford, in the time of Wallace, kept this stronghold with a detachment of southern soldiers-a matter of usurpation grievous to the patriotic inhabitants of the district. In order to expel the intruders from the garrison, an urgent applica tion was made to Sir William Douglas of Douglasdale, one of our famous Scottish patriots, who readily acceded to the request, and lent his willing aid to regain the hold. He collected his retainers, and, taking his march under the cloud of night, arrived within a short distance of the castle unobserved, and located his men in a cleuch or ravine close by the side of the river Crawick, a spot familiarly called the Witch's Linn. Here, in the gloom and silence of the umbrageous forest, he waited his opportunity of making his descent unobserved through the underwood, which at that time covered almost the entire district. The famous Dixon of Hazelside in Douglas Water, one of the faithful retainers of the brave Sir William, and who eventually lost his life in the battle of Palm-Sunday, which was fought with the English in the churchyard of old St Bride's of Douglas, devised a scheme for the recovery of the castle, which he put in successful execution. There was one Anderson, who drove firewood to the hold from the neighbouring forest. With this man Dixon made a paction to gain his object. It was agreed that they should exchange clothes, and that Dixon should drive the car with the wood to the castle in the morning. The men from Douglas were to follow Dixon warily in the dusk at a short distance. Accordingly, when the carman came before the castle-gate, he demanded admittance as usual, and, as no deception was suspected, the ponderous portcullis was raised, and the massive door, on its grating hinges, was thrown back. Dixon then drove forward, and jammed the loaded car firmly in the entrance. On this Douglas and his men sprang over the wood, and stood within the castle-gate. They instantly killed the sentinel, and then rushed into the interior, and, hastening from one apartment to another, they slaughtered the entire garrison, with the exception of one man, who escaped by a postern, and ran in breathless haste to Durisdeer, a neighbouring stronghold. The news of the onslaught enraged the garrison in this secluded locality, and they rushed forth, like bees from the hive, with a determination to take dreadful reprisals on the daring band who had wrought such scathe on their countrymen. It was not long till the castle was surrounded, and a vigorous attempt made to revenge the injury. It was all in vain, however, for Douglas set them at defiance, and stoutly maintained his position. The English, perceiving all their efforts to be fruitless, determined to starve the party into a surrender, and for this purpose regularly blockaded the fort. In this attempt they persisted for two weeks, when Douglas dismissed by the postern a trusty henchman, who hasted to Wallace, who was then in Lennox, and besought his aid to rescue his friend the Douglas. The Scottish patriot lost no time in hasting to the rescue, and when he was within a few miles the besiegers thought fit to retreat; and Wallace and Douglas, in the pursuit, as the castles evacuated one after another, in the line southward, came upon the fugitives on the plains of Dalswinton, where a bloody fray ensued, and five hundred of the English were left dead on the field. In this way the upper part of Nithsdale obtained a complete clearance of the invaders. coffin of strong oak, on the opening of which was found a tall trunk of a man without the head. This doubtless had. been a murder, and the body committed to the pit for the purpose of concealment. The power of 'pit and gallows' entrusted to the ancient barons left them at liberty to do many lawless things. Happily those days have passed away, and the rude manners of the ancient times have been softened down by the gentle influence of religious cul ture. We next ascended the town common, from which we had a very fine prospect of the upper basin of the Nith on all sides. This slight elevation, as a facetious friend remarked, is much like a cookie, swelling up from the plains of a baker's oven, and certainly, from a similar cause, the subjacent heat which erst produced those geological elevations, or huge terrestrial blisters, vulgarly yclept hills. We had now a view of many interesting points of scenery spread before us in charming variety, and we found, as Sir Walter Scott observes, that the finest points of Scottish scenery escape the eye of the passing traveller, as they lie out of the sight of the highway, and creep aside into the shy bosom of the beauteous hills. The scene was wild but delicious; the blue sky, the verdant heights, the bosky dells, the deep ruts in the brow of the mountains, the lambkins on the heath, the warblers in the thickets, all reminded us of the lines of the poet : It is God's goodness that diffuses charms spacious field, our attention was directed to a dark and deep defile in the hills, a little to the east. This was the famous Glendyne, the occasional retreat of the venerable Peden of saintly memory, whose home was the desert moorlands and the lonely huts of the shepherds. In the thickets of Glendyne-for it had thickets in those dayshe had a retreat, known to this day by the name of Peden's Cave, in which he spent many a solitary hour, and issued from his hiding-place to visit the households in the vicinity, and to preach to them the Gospel, in the stealthy hours of midnight. This man of God made many narrow escapes in the wilds, when he was keenly pursued by the enemy; and it was near this same place, on the slope of the neighbouring hill, that the mist screened him from his pursuers, in speedy answer to his prayers; and it was here, too, under the projecting brow of a mountain-streamlet, where he had hastily concealed himself, lying close by the water's edge, that he nearly met his fate, when the foot of one of the trooper's horses, sinking through the turf beneath which he lay, pressed his bonnet into the soft clay on which his head reclined, without inflicting the slightest injury, and, arising unscathed, he blessed the great Preserver of his life. The place where we stood was surrounded by lofty hills, on which reposed the lovely sunshine, and all was peace and serenity around. Oh, how pleasant thus to retire from the world, and yield the mind to calm and holy thought The walls of this building are remarkably strong and well-sweet emblem of heaven's rest! In glancing over the compacted, and of great thickness, so that in the days of the warfare of bow and arrow it must have been impregnable. There is in the south corner of it a receptacle called Wallace's Tower, the place in the hold assigned to that hero when he chanced to be in this part of the country. This stronghold has entertained royalty within its walls. King James VI. paid it a visit in 1617, on the last day of July, and spent one merry night in the ha',' with his friend the baron. The story is this: Crichton, the lord of the manor, and the king had been very intimate companions, and James, on a tour to Scotland, after he ascended the English throne, carne through Ayrshire, down Nithsdale to Sanquhar, to visit Crichton in his peel. The occasion was one of great hilarity, and the rustic populace of the strath poured forth in crowds to testify their fealty to their sovereign, and to witness the trappings of royalty. This visit being anticipated, Crichton had prepared a sumptuous entertainment, so that when the king came, the stately avenue which led to the castle gate, the lofty trees arching overhead like a fretted Gothic dome, was not only lined with people, but, it is said, with goodly casks of the bluid red wine,' which flowed copiously, and so copiously that the hoofs of the horses of the royal cavalcade were bathed in the ruddy stream. Within the peel, the festivities were splendid, and such'dancing and deray' was never seen in old Sanquhar before or since. The hall was lighted up with brilliancy, and the large castle lamp, placed in the centre of the festive board, was graced with a wick well pleasing to the king, but rather costly to his host; for Crichton, stepping forward with lordly port, in the presence of his sovereign and all the guests, extracted the blazing wick from the lamp, and inserted another of a cylindric form, made of parchment, containing a large account of a sum of borrowed money against the king, which the noble-minded baron, in the excess of his loyalty, com! mitted to the flames, and thus extinguished the debt for ever. This, however, with the expenses of the royal visit, brought his estate to the market in little more than a dozen of years afterwards. So much for human vanity. Strange things have happened here, and deeds of darkness have been perpetrated, which were never divulged. About fifty years ago, as some persons were clearing out the rubbish from what was supposed to have been an ancient well in the centre of the castle court, they came upon a huge At the base of the same hill, we saw the spot where stood the house of the famous Andrew Clark, whose family of nine sons made so distinguished a figure in the locality in the stirring times of persecution. The Martyr's Knowe, beyond the rising ground, was the memorable spot on which the Laird of Drumlanrig met with a signal discomfiture by a thunderstorm and heavy hail when pursuing a band of wanderers in hiding among the hills. There was scarcely a spot within the boundary of our vision that had not its tradition of some worthy, or of certain incidents that befell in times more recent or more remote. We have never been in a locality so stereotyped with incidents, and clustered with associations of a stirring nature as this. The entire circle of hills round and round speaks with a hundred tongues, all telling their own tale of traditionary interest, and it would require a long summer day to listen to all that might be told of weal or wo that befell in ages long gone by. Among others, there is the legend of the castle in the loch on the moor; the Celtic battlefield; of a hundred graves, all lying nd south, indicative of an era long prior to the introduction of Christianity; the martyrs' graves on the braes of Conraik; the Covenanters' Cave in the dark woods by the margin of the Crawick; the residence of the heroic matron of Howetsburnfoot, who scared the doughty Colonel Douglas, the brother of Drumlanrig, from the slaughter of young Andrew Clark the Covenanter, on the brown heath before his father's door; the stately trysting-tree in the woods of Eliack, in a cavity | of the roots of which, by the side of the Ganple burn, a friend of the persecuted used to conceal himself, while a trusty servant of the lord of the manor, at a stated hour in the evening, used to tell the tree-for he durst not tell to man-what were to be the movements of the troopers on the morrow, in their raids against the helpless sufferers the lone cottage on the heath, the occasional resort of the wanderers of the Covenant; the lofty Balehill, famous for the fires lighted on its summit on May-day, in honour of the god of fire, when the inhabitants drove their children and their cattle through the flames in order to ensure prosperity and health for the ensuing year; the dreary locality of Laganaweel, of ancient tragic interest; the Druid's dell, where the people of a forgotten age observed their religious rites within the circle of stones under the awning of the sacred oak beside the limpid rill. But it is needless to particularise; the whole scene is one of surpassing richness; a profusion of beauty is spread over it, and the eye never wearies in roaming over mountain and cataract, woodland and green field, rugged heath and fairy streamlets Oh, wild tradition'd Scotland, Thy briery burns and braes Are full of pleasant memories, And tales of other days!' We lingered by the bed of the mountain torrent, and peered into the long and narrow ravines, those deep gashes made in the steep of the hills by the great thunder spates, which, rushing impetuously from the bosom of the firmament, when the ominous tempest-cloud, bursting over the eminences above, ploughs and tears up moss, and earth, and rocks, carrying all headlong to the level space beneath; and we loved to look on The dreary glen, where the wild winds rave, And the heath-screen'd mouth of the wierd man's cave, The parallel streams of the Menack and the Crawick present each a scene to which no description can do justice. They flow into the Nith, the one above and the other below the town of Sanquhar, traversing lovely pastoral vales, abodes of sweet retirement, where the world is shut out, and the mind is abstracted from all earthly care, and borne aloft to regions of purity and bliss. Oh, how willingly could we withdraw to your sylvan nooks and fairy dells, and live remote from the bustling scenes of earth! There was one circumstance with which we were particularly struck, and that was the smooth verdure of the mountains, as if they had been carpeted with green velvet, having the appearance of a newly mown lawn to their very summits; and how were we delighted with the dewdrops of the morning, that were sown in pearly profusion over the whole scene, all pure and transparent in the sun, all gems of the richest hues-of the bright silver, of the burning gold, of the blue, and the green, and the vermilionbrilliant globules innumerable, pendant on the hedgerows, trembling on the blades of grass, and glittering on the bosom of the flowers! But we must cease, though the half has not been told; and we will not soon forget the delight we experienced in our ramblings through the upper ward of Nithsdale. Live ye bright scenes in our memory! Ye warm and soothe the heart-ye sanctify the imagination, and add another item to the amount of hallowed recollections! THE MAN WITH ONE BAD HABIT. MR UPTON, of Cambridge, was the son of a poor, industrious shoemaker. He learned his father's trade, and, being prudent and steady, he was soon in the way of making a comfortable little property. He married a worthy young woman, who always managed to make their own neat fireside the pleasantest place in the whole world to her hard-working husband. The floor was always nicely sanded, the hearth swept clean, and a plentiful kettle of warm broth or soup was always provided for his return. Things were in this state at the commencement of the American revolutionary war. Then Mr Upton felt it his duty to join the army. It was, no doubt, a sad trial to the honest man to leave the place where he had spent so many happy hours; but his wife and children must be defended-so he buckled on his sword, aud, without shedding a tear, he hurried to the camp. His courage and good conduct were soon noticed by the officers, and he was made one of Washington's life-guard. Like every one else who knew that great and good man, he soon loved him with unbounded attachment and respect. While the general had his head-quarters at Cambridge, it was frequently necessary for detachments of the army to make excursions into the neighbouring towns. On one of these occasions, Washington and his life-guard were pursued by a company of British soldiers. They retired as rapidly as possible, but the English being close upon their rear, they were often obliged to turn and fight. In the midst of the retreat, an Englishman had just raised his sword above the head of the general, when Mr Upton sprang forward and placed his body between him and the commander. The uplifted weapon descended upon his thigh, and crippled him for life. After they had safely effected their return to the American barracks, Washington called to inquire concerning the man who had so generously preserved his life at the risk of his own. Thanks be to God, my general, that your life is saved!' exclaimed the wounded soldier: 'America could lose such a man as I am, but what could she do without your honour?' the war. His wound disabled him for battle, but he continued to perform various services to his country until the close of and freedom, he returned to his home. True, it was now After seeing his country in possession of peace almost desolate and comfortless. No one had been left to cultivate his small farm, and what little stock he possessed had been killed for the use of the army. America was then too poor to pay their soldiers for what they had lost and suffered; and Mr Upton was obliged to contend with poverty as he could. His hard-earned bread, however, was sweetened by the respect which was everywhere paid to him. When he swung his axe over his shoulder, and went forth to labour in the woods, he was always welcomed with smiling looks and a cordial shake of the hand from his companions; and the older boys would often call out to their little brothers, Off with your hat, Joe, and make a bow, for there is the man who saved the life of General Washington.' The poor soldiers of the revolution had but few of those comforts which now make our firesides so cheerful; but when the long winter evenings came on, dearly did they love to fight their battles over again, and often would they say to Mr Upton, The loss of your limb in such a cause, neighbour, is a greater honour to you than if you had a crown upon your head. The tears would sometimes trickle down his cheeks, as he replied, The Lord make us thankful that it saved his honour's life. It is little we should have done against all Burgoyne's troops if his wisdom had not been at the helm. I am thinking, friends, that I could depart in peace, if I could once more look George Washington in the face, and say, 'God bless your honour."' Now, this was in 1784, the year after Great Britain ac knowledged the independence of America, and will it be believed that only four years after, when General Washington desired an interview with Mr Upton, he was ashamed to grant it? Yes! the man whose bravery saved his general-whose integrity won the respect of his neighbourswhose industry had procured a comfortable home, and whose kindness had ensured him an affectionate family, gave way to the sin of intemperance. Once his little ones used to run out eagerly to kiss his healthy, good-humoured countenance; but now he had become so cross and troublesome that his children were afraid of him. His firm, bold step had become weak and trembling with intoxication; and his round, handsome face was now red and bloated. When Washington visited New England, he sent a servant to request a visit from his old preserver. The wretched man heard the summons, and wept aloud. "Heaven knows,' said he, that in my best days I would have walked from here to Mississippi, for the honour which Washington now pays me. But I cannot-I cannot carry this shameful face into his presence. Tell General Washington that my love and gratitude will always follow him. Tell him that none but the good have a right to look upon his blessed countenance, and Mr Upton is no longer among that number.' If ever our young friends should be tempted to persevere in one thing, which they know to be wrong, let them remember that one bad habit changed Mr Upton from a brave soldier and a respected citizen, into a worthless and neglected sot-procured for him the contempt of those who once esteemed him, the fear and distrust of his family, the sorrowful disapprobation of his general, and finally broke his heart with shame and remorse. FESTIVAL OF ST ROCHUS AT BRUJEN. EVERY little village in Germany has its annual festival or kerchweise. This festival is partly religious and partly social, beginning with processions and masses, and ending with wine and dancing. Our English villages-more especially in Yorkshire, where the Saxon element still predominates to this day retain these old festivals, originally Pagan feast-days, which were engrafted upon Christianity, and converted into saints' days. But in Yorkshire they have not even changed their name, and the time of the feast' is still looked forward to with joyous longings by old as well as young. Great pies and pud lings are baked; immense roasts are provided, with store of parkin and oatcake; and a season of jollity, visiting, and amusement occurs throughout the district of the feast,' which lasts for several days, sometimes for an entire week. The religious part of the feast' has, however, long since vanished, though tradition has handed down to us that it was originally the important business of the season. But in the villages of Germany, though amusement and jollity are not overlooked on those occasions, religious observance has still an important place. Enter one of these villages on the morning of the annual festival, and you will find the villagers dressed for church in all their best, business totally suspended, unless in the wine-houses, and at the abundant stalls, erected along the public way, covered with most attractive wares for youth and maidens; and then you will shortly see all wending their way to the village church, where mass is sung, and choruses are performed, with the aid of all manner of old clarionets, bassoons, fiddles, and trombones, that the village can muster; and shortly after, amidst the swinging of incense, and a wonderful commotion among the crowd which presses round, a procession emerges from the humble building; and, borne in the midst, you will observe sacred effigies of all sorts, from Adam down to Joseph the carpenter, executed in wood, wax, plaster, and paint, by the aspiring artists of the village, each fancying himself a Michael Angelo or a Benvenutu Cellini. Newly painted and furbished up for the occasion, and decorated with garlands of flowers, and branches of trees, these are carried through the village in procession; crucifixes and flags are borne aloft, with various religious emblems blazoned thereon; the boys singing anthems to trombone accompaniments; girls dressed in white; priests in red, white, and yellow; and all the men, women, and children, of all sorts and conditions, bringing up the rear. They proceed to some outpost of the village, where stands an effigy of the Virgin, or to some spot in an adjoining green field, where a wooden altar, with its decoration of burning candles, has been erected; and there another mass is said, and hymns are sung, and incense is wafted about; and then the procession returns to the village, another service is said in the church when the congregation is dismissed, and the religious part of the festival is over. Now comes the most joyous part of it, for which young lovers have longed, and children sighed, and parents, brothers, and sisters, wished many a long and weary day. Friends and relations from neighbouring towns and vil lages come pouring in; the Gast worth houses become crammed to suffocation; eating and drinking commence, though both in moderation, and the latter comparatively harmless, thanks to the thin sour wine at twopence the choppin; and then, chiefest of all, comes the dancing! At these village The Germans, of all conditions, follow public pleasure as part of the main business of life; while in this country it is only enjoyed at rare and long intervals. We are here speaking of the mass of the people; but with the Germans generally it is a matter of daily pursuit; they feast upon it, while we only sip it, sometimes ruefully. And of all German pleasures, none is comparable, in their estimation, to the waltz. In Germany, everybody waltzes: old and young, rich and poor, men and women. feasts, you see boors and cits of both sexes mingling freely in the dance, and intensely enjoying it. You will find almost every room in the inns, except the kitchen, filled with dancers, on the occasion of the Fest;' and in German villages there is no lack of musicians. Groups form themselves into dancing parties out of doors too; and any kind of accommodation for this purpose is tolerated. Dancing is the general pleasure and passion. There they go whirling round and round in rapid gyrations, till the head almost grows giddy at looking on. Even the bandy-legged and knock-kneed join in the general whirl. All dance; they seem as if they could not keep their seats while the music calls to action. Even the most sorry-favoured woman lacks not ever a partner. A fat man, with spectacles on nose, and bald-pated, seizes hold of some lean wiry wo man, and whirls her away; or some long spelk of a fellow gets possession of another man's 'rib,' whom he can scarcely compass by a good yard, and they too contrive to whirl away with the rest; little boys pick up old wives, and old men seize young maids, and away they all go; or, better than all, smart young fellows, agile and dexterous, take in the embrace of their right arms the ripe, lovely, laughing young maidens, and, linked in love and delight, away too they go-all wheeling, whirling, flying, coursing, dancing, as if possessed by Dr Faustus. Absorbing and universal is the passion of the German people for dancing! Such are the ordinary village festivals in the villages along the Rhine; mixtures of religion and pleasure-the latter considerably preponderating. There are, however, other festivals of a more strictly religious character; and of these one of the most remarkable is the Feast of St Rochus at Brujen. We were at Mayence, about twenty miles from Brujen, higher up the river, when informed that this celebrated feast was to come off on the day following; and as numerous steamers were announced to run on the occasion, we resolved to seize the opportunity of witnessing the ceremonies. At an early hour we were on board the steamer, which we found crowded with passengers-a large portion of the splendid Austrian garrison band, dressed in their white jackets with red facings and conical-looking little Albert hats, being grouped on the deck, playing in the most exquisite manner. The morn ing was very beautiful, the sun shone full and clear, and there was just breeze enough to cool the ardour of his rays, and render the whole scene delicious. The twenty miles of Rhine which lie between Mayence and Brujen, skirt some of the richest and most luxurious scenery in Germany. At some remote period, the whole country between Brujen and Basle, on the frontier of Switzerland, must have been submerged under water, as numerous freshwater shells and deposits found in the valley of the Rhine yet testify. The accumulation of the waters, aided probably by some great convulsion of nature, seem to have forced a rent for them across the chain of mountains which now crosses the Rhine at nearly right angles, a little below the town of Brujen. From thence, down to Coblentz, the river flows through scenery of the most rugged, abrupt, and precipitous character. But the rent through this chain of hills at Brujen has never become sufficiently widened to |