than 2001. of money, in pounds, crowns, half-crowns, sixpences and pennies.

Not in the village, but some ten miles to the westward, and among the hills, lived another curious genius, named Hector Mac Callum. He was noted for his improvisatore powers, indeed considered himself one of the last specimens of the Highland Bard, or Sennachie; and was not without pretensions to the second sight. He attended markets, and after having been plied with plenty of whisky, would commence and spout, or sing Gaelic songs and rhapsodies, which were said, by those who understood the language, to possess considerable fire. Some waggish person persuaded him to write, in English, a picture of the splendid scenery around. As his knowledge of English was very imperfect, the result was an inconceivably ridiculous hubbub of misapplied words, superlatives soaring above superlatives; and to add the last element to the jumble, and make it "thick and slab," the wag, a man of some literature, prefixed a preface, full of really exquisite ironical praise, commending the author for his noble superiority to common rules, his lofty contempt for grammar, his manly and daring use of the privilege of genius, to talk nonsense, and so forth. Hector lived some years after this, and died by a fall from the precipices of the east side of Ben Ample, where he had been pursuing a stray goat -a fate fit for the last of the Sennachies. It was said that he had predicted his own departure in a Gaelic ode, entitled "The Doom of the Poet." It was said, too, that meeting one day a celebrated statesman, who had an estate in the neighbourhood, hurrying in his carriage toward Edinburgh, he cried out, "That's a dying man," words which were fulfilled a few days afterwards. Men still, as they pace the base of Ben Ample, and point up to the rock down which Hector was dashed, sink their voice into whispers as they speak of his predictions.

The village and neighbourhood possessed a number of smaller originals-such as a mad woman, who, in her higher

te, occasionally appeared in the streets, and was followed by a procession of boys. It was almost sublime to see her infuriated gestures, and to hear her torrent of Erse oaths as she turned upon her pursuers; you thought of Ulrica on the walls of Torquilstone, or of Meg Merrilees, when drummed out of Kippletringan. There was also a little hump-backed dominis, whom his scholars occasionally turned out of school, sending the "schoolmaster abroad" with a vengeance, and others of less mark and likelihood. I mention only one more, who had a very singular history. His name was James Henderson. He was the son of a watch-maker in Inverness, whose widow, on his death, removed to our village, and took up a small shop. James was sent to school and became a clever scholar, particularly in mathematics. From school he went to Marischal College, Aberdeen, and ultimately took license as a preacher in some one of the dissenting bodies. He seems, however, to have imbibed infidel sentiments from Voltaire, Volney, and other writers of that stamp. He failed in preach-ing, from a coldness of manner partly, and partly because he was lame in one of his limbs. He went abroad, to Nova Scotia, for two or three years, but even there his ill-success pursued him, and he returned to his native country. I used to see him loitering about the village with a settled look of disappointment lowering on his brows. At last he heard of a vacancy in the neighbourhood of Dumfries, and by a timely application succeeded in obtaining the call to a good congregation. He went away in great spirits, but returned in a few months to invite a young lady, daughter of a respectable exciseman, to accompany him southward, as his wife. She declined he left in deep dudgeon; and in half-a-year afterwards became insane. The first terrible fit was cured, but his mind was effectually shattered, and he came back the wreck of what he had been. For many years he continued to haunt the village, sometimes keeping a school, sometimes working as a day-labourer, sometimes all but begging his bread. A strange being he was! The disease had stung his

mind into tenfold activity, and revealed in him a vein of genius which no one had before suspected. It disclosed, too, his infidel opinions, and he sometimes disgorged the vilest things. It became quite a treat for the thoughtless lads to gather round "Lucifer," as he was called, especially under the evening shadows, and to hear his outpourings, which consisted of the cleverest and strangest thoughts, diversified by oaths and blasphemies-now making his auditors shudder, and anon stirring them to inextinguishable laughter. I often, while pacing at night the river side, heard the roars of laughter from the bridge, or the old tree in the centre of the village, which announced that “Lucifer” was there in all his glory. He sometimes said striking, as well as strange things. Looking up to the Comet of 1835, he cried, "I have long been speculating about the nature of comets: I have found it out at last,—they're the steamboats of the universe." His criticisms on books, men, and preachers were singularly clever, and often just. To church he never went, however, latterly; but as the hearers were crowding in on Sabbath morning to hear the sermon on one side of the river, "Lucifer" was seen on the other, wending his solitary way up the bank toward some secluded spot, where he spent the day, either in reading, or in the company of his own wild thoughts. It was almost terrific to me to watch the lonely wanderer striking on toward the woods, and I sometimes asked, "Has he an appointment there, and with whom?” Apart from his mental aberration, which varied at different times, Henderson was an amiable, moral, and harmless creature, much liked by all; and his tone, latterly, in reference to Christ, which had been horribly abusive, underwent a change, and he spoke of him with a curious mixture of affection, admiration, disbelief, and something approaching pity. I often sighed as I thought, had this poor unfortunate but lived in the days of the Redeemer's flesh, he would have soon sat down beside his brother, the demoniac, clothed, and in his right mind, at these blessed feet! He has long been

dead he died of sheer weakness and old age, and is, I trust, mtting there now.

Not many distinguished strangers visited our village,—it www too far out of the way for this. One day, however, as Henry Thompson and I were standing on the bridge, a gay open entringe pred us, and I noticed a tall, broad-shouldered, distinguished looking man, dressed in a round straw hat, blue comt, buff waistcoat, and nankeen pantalcons, with two wild fight blue eyes, which, shining from amidst long yellow hair, reminded me of two hawk's eyes gleaming through a bush of yellow form. He was accompanied by some ladies, and seemned in ruptures with the scenery, points in which he was showing them with extended arm. I noticed Thompson blush, and look down, and so soon as the chariot was passed he said, mollo voce, "That's my professor, Christopher North." We ran after, in hopes of seeing him again, but he did not find metal attractive enough in our inn to induce him to tarry, and was borne away from our view in a whirlwind. He alluded to this rapid puussage to me many years after, and regretted he had not taken more time to see our country. He was the first noted author I ever saw; but a year or two after, I, and two or three of my companions, having walked some forty miles across the hills, to attend the Braemar Highland ganes, were rewarded by a sight of Jeffrey, seated in a carringe, and with his black eyes, hair, and smart little head, reminding us of what Hogg called him, "the wee reekit deil o' criticism." It was, I think, the same year, that one day, standing at the old tree, I saw my father returning from the post office with a newspaper in his hand. As he passed, he said, in almost a whisper, "Lord Byron's dead." I felt stunned, as if by a blow on the skull: I could not say a word, but ran up to Henry Thompson, whom I saw approaching, and stammered out, "Lord Byron's dead ;" and he next was struck dumb with wonder and grief, and for three or four minutes we stood silent and awestruck, in thoughts too deep for tears. I had only by that time read extracts and

portions of Byron's poetry, but the impression made had been very profound.

A year or two after, a remarkable event occurred in our quiet little history. My father said to me one morning, as he dropped a letter from his hand on the breakfast-table, "Great news! Andrew Thomson, of St. George's, Edinburgh, is coming, after all, to address us on the Apocrypha controversy." At this I greatly rejoiced. I had read all that controversy, especially Thomson's Second Statement, and agreed thoroughly with the Edinburgh Society, which, my readers must remember, had objected to the London Bible Society circulating the Apocrypha along with the Bible, and had carried the mind of Scotland in general along with them. I had also a strong impression of the powers of Thomson, and an earnest desire to hear him. He was at the time going around various districts of the country, and delivering orations on the subject—had been invited to our village repeatedly, and at last had complied. My father and I were waiting for him when he arrived in a gig from the south. He was a strong-built, bluff-looking man, of the middle size, with a bull-dog physiognomy, and thick curling hair. His manner was frank, bold, open; his mirth sometimes immoderate; his conversation singularly rich, powerful, diversified with anecdote, and, when he was contradicted, full, like his speeches, of vigorous argumentation, and clear, rapid statement. He addressed a crowded audience in the evening in a speech of three hours' length, distinguished by his usual qualities of pithy statement, commanding logic, clear, strong diction, masculine eloquence, and vivid sarcasm and wit. The effect was overwhelming, and was considerably enhanced by an incident which occurred. An old Baptist minister named Johnstone, with more zeal than discretion, got up at the close, and put in a very feeble reclamation in behalf of the London Society. Thomson rose next like a lion, lifted up the speech of the old man as he might a puppy-dog, and with majestic and scornful ease disposed of it and him

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