The major had hardly reached his room, when one of the servants came in, pale as death, and trembling so as hardly to be able to speak.

66 Well, you fool, what's the matter with

"Oh! Sir, I-I've seen a-a-”

"What, you fool-a ghost?"

"Ye'-ye's, sir!"

you?"

"Come here, you idiot," shouted the major, "come here; what do you mean, you gaping fool?-Do you know what a ghost is ?"

"N-n-no, sir-but-but-oh! oh!"

"Why, the fool's going into hysterics." The major violently rang the bell.

"Here, take this woman away-she shall have her wages to-morrow. I'll keep no such fools in my house."

sence.

The servants obeyed, not daring to say a word in their master's preHowever, there was a rumour amongst the servants that something very strange had happened. Some said that the devil had been seen walking up and down the shrubbery, and that strange noises had been heard. Every one in the kitchen, so they all said, heard a most piercing shriek and the mournful howling of a dog-and long and long at night the major was heard walking in his room.

CHAPTER IV.

AGAIN the fire crackled, and the huge pot sent forth its savoury smell, and again the village gossips were assembled at the Trevetha Arms; the blacksmith, the barber, and the clerk were there.

"I say, master landlord," said the clerk, "it's now five years—yes, this very night five years-since, if you recollect, we were all here just as we are now. Do you recollect that night?"

"Ah, indeed, I do," said the landlord, gravely; "and well I may." "How ?" said the barber.

"Ah," again ejaculated the landlord, as he shook his head.

"What on earth became of Pilchar Hodge?"

"Ah! it's an awful world," ejaculated the landlord.

"Why, what became of him?" asked the blacksmith.

"Yes, sir, coming," said the landlord to a customer.

"I never could find out the rights of it," said the clerk; "I spoke to his reverence several times, but his answer was always, ' Peter, may God have mercy on the souls of the wicked.'"

"And what became of the stranger and his dog?" said the blacksmith. "There's something in the whole affair," said the barber, "that we don't understand; and it's my belief that the landlord knows more about it than he chooses to tell. You recollect how he changed on that night ?"

66 Yes," ," said the clerk; "and we never saw any thing of the sexton, nor the stranger, nor the dog since."

"No, nor Tom Jinks either."

"And Will Richards was said to have died of a fright, if you recollect," said the barber; "and his wife and children were taken to the union."

"Yes, poor fellow," said the blacksmith; "his wife said that he lost his mind the night after he was here."

"A stormy night, I'm afraid, we shall have of it," said the landlord; "the wind is beginning to rise. Hark! wasn't that thunder in the

distance?"

They all listened, and could distinctly hear the low rumble; and a sudden gust rushed over the house, and fled away in the distance with a dismal howl.

They looked at one another; again the thunder was heard, but it was

nearer.

"It was just such a night as this," said the clerk, "that Pilchar Hodge came."

"He'll never come again," said the landlord.

"God forbid," said the clerk.

Crash! came the thunder, that shook the house to its foundation; and you could hear crack, crack, crack, till it ended in a dull low roll in the distance; and now the rain came down in torrents, the lightning seemed one stream of living light; the stoutest of the company turned pale; the door flew open, and a figure, strongly reflected by the lighting, stood on the threshold.

"Ha! ha! ha!"

"It is he!" cried the landlord, and fell on his face.

The door shut, the thunder rolled, the lightning flashed. They went to the landlord, and picked him up. He was dead. All was consternation and dismay; the blacksmith was the only one who seemed to have any presence of mind; the clerk began to repeat part of the service; the poor little barber rushed franticly about, muttering most extraordinary things.

Some ran for the doctor, some for his reverence, and some ran away nobody knew where. The doctor and his reverence came; but all to no purpose; the landlord was dead. Strange were the tales told next day in the village of Lelant; some declared they had seen Pilchar Hodge carrying away the landlord in a flame of fire. However, one thing was certain, that Pilchar Hodge was nowhere to be seen. The next day every inquiry was made, and his reverence took every pains to find if he had been seen by any one else save the guests at the Trevetha Arms, but no one had; all seemed wrapped in mystery.

Soon after there was a report that strange noises were heard at the major's; the servants gave warning, fresh ones were had, but they did not stay long, and all the village was in a complete stir. It was well known that the vicar had called, but was refused an audience; he had written, but had received no reply; and the people said that it looked very bad when a man refused to see the parson, and some went so far as to say, "if he wouldn't see the parson he must see somebody else!"

Things went on like this for some time, and by degrees the alarm subsided; another landlord took the Trevetha Arms, and the village gossips assembled to enjoy the blazing fire and eat the savoury supper as formerly. But still there was something about the major's place that no one liked to go near, and for all the money in the world you would not persuade any one to go through the grounds after night-fall.

One evening, while the guests were all assembled as usual, the clerk

came in in a great hurry and very pale; he sat himself down on a stool.

"What's the matter, Mr. Polwheal ?" said the landlord.

"It's all out," groaned the clerk.

"What's all out?" exclaimed every one.

"Murder!" said the clerk.

"Murder!" exclaimed the barber, "do tell us; I love to hear about murder."

Well," said the clerk, "may I never love money. Pilchar Hodge, or whoever he was, never said a truer thing, there's nothing like money to send people to the devil'-and I hope he didn't hear me.'

"But, but," continued the little anxious barber; "but the murderhow did it happen? who did it? where was it done?"

"Why," said the clerk, "it happened this how. There was talk that there was a good lode discovered in Carrackgladden Cliff, and some miners went down and began to work, and when they had gone a little way they came to what seemed to them a wall. Well, they broke through the wall, and what should they see but a small dungeon like, and at the bottom they seed something they couldn't tell what. One wanted another to go down, and he wanted him, but nobody would go, they were so afeered, and I don't wonder at it-I wouldn't have gone for a thousand pounds.”

"Nor I neither," said the barber.

"Hold thee tongue," said the blacksmith, "thee'st a fool of a barber."

He

"Well," continued the clerk, "at last they sent to his reverence. came, and after rebuking them for their folly, but commending them for sending for him-for you know his reverence is a magistrate-he got two men of them to go with him into the dungeon, and then they saw a skeleton. And what do you think it was? Only a woman's. There were rings on her fingers and a gold chain about her neck. His reverence said nothing; he ordered the men to go to the-the-the-" "Crowner," said the landlord.

"Yes, yes; well, in the meantime, his reverence looks about him, and sees some steps leading up, as it were. Well, up he goes, and finds a sort of a door, which he orders the men to break open. And where do you think they found themselves? Why, in the major's grotto."

"Dear me, who'd h've thought it," said the landlord.

The barber looked sagaciously, as though he had thought it all along. "Well, his reverence writes something on a paper, and gives it to one of the men, and very soon after I learned that the major had been taken up on the charge of murder."

"Murder !" exclaimed every one.

"I thought how it would happen," said the barber; "I always said so."

"Hold yer tongue you little pitiful chin-scraping animal, and let's know the end of it," roared the blacksmith.

The barber was ready to shrink into his shoes.

"Well, that's all I know," said the clerk. "I came here to tell you the news."

"Thankee, thankee," said the landlord, "it was kind of 'ee to come, so it was."

The news soon flew about the village that the major had been taken up for murder. Very shortly the coroner arrived with some persons to visit the cave of Carrackgladden. They surveyed the remains of the unfortunate individual, whoever she might be, and some fragments of dress, which time and the damp had not destroyed, were taken care of. A verdict of "murder" was pronounced against some person or persons unknown. The major still remained under custody in his own house, for gaols and prisons were not so plentiful as they are now. However, there being no proof against the major, he was released, and very soon after he left, discharged all his servants, and offered to let the place, but no one would take it, and it gradually fell into decay.

Time wore on, the blacksmith grew old at his anvil, the barber became a little shrivelled old man, but still chattering as ever, and always talking about the old house, and was never known to pass it at dark; but the Trevetha Arms still flourished, and piece by piece the old house was taken away by the people, and thistles and briars grew where the proud mysterious major used to live. But years, years after, an old man came to the village, attended by an old serving-man. They seemed to know the place, but no one knew them; and it was remarked that the old man used to wander down by Carrackgladden sands, and his old serving-man seemed to try to cheer him up, for he seemed like one stricken with grief; but the old man got worse and worse, and one evening they found him dead in the old cave, where the body was found. His serving-man said his master wished to be buried there, and so he was; and when they buried him his servantman put a brass-bound box under him, and said that whoever should try to disturb his master would be a corpse before the sun should rise. And the next morning, when the neighbours went to see the cave, it was dropping with water clear as crystal, and next spring curious plants, that none had seen before, had grown there.

But somehow a rumour had spread that there were treasures in that box, and the old blacksmith and the barber agreed that that must be the box they remembered so well, and then they wondered that they'd never found out that the old man was Sir Ulwyn, and his serving-man was Pilchar Hodge, the old sexton.

"But it would be a sin," said the blacksmith, "to disturb the dead." "But what good can the treasure do him?" said the barber.

"Thee's nothing to do with that," said the blacksmith; "it's ill touching a dead man's grave."

The barber said nothing, but the next day he was missing. They searched all about. At last they went to the cave, and there they found the barber, cold and dead. Beside him lay a shovel and pickaxe and a lantern. The people shook their heads, took him home and buried him, and ever since that time no one has ventured to disturb the bones of him who lies buried in the cave of Carrackgladden; and the water still falls, and the people say they are the tears of Sir Ulwyn, and that rare old plant, the Alpine fern, grows there, and weeps over Sir Ulwyn's grave, and people come from far to gather it.

(The little old man ceased speaking. I looked, but he was gone; I called, but no one answered.)

HOME THROUGH THE VALLEY OF HELL.

BY DUDLEY COSTELLO, ESQ.

THE homeward-bound English traveller from Munich has three routes open to him.

The first and most direct, taking Augsburg as the starting-point (which is reached by railway in two hours), is by way of Ulm and Stuttgart, and, if pressed for time, from thence in a straight line to the Bruchsal station on the Baden railway; or, if there be no necessity for so much rapidity of motion as can be elicited from German post horses-(five English miles to the hour)-the traveller may diverge from Stuttgart to Heilbronn, and, taking the steamer, descend to Heidelberg by the beautiful valley of the Neckar. In the latter case, he should time his departure from Augsburg so as to sleep the first night at Ulm, and as the Eilwagen leaves four times a day-one of the hours being a little before noon-this may be easily managed. He will then be able, on leaving Ulm, to take daylight with him through the magnificent gorge of the Suabian mountains, which leads so abruptly down to Geisslingen, and enjoy the picturesque scenery of the Fils till it falls into the Upper Neckar; unless, indeed, his thoughts be wholly engrossed by the recollection of the captivating maidens-(their beauty quite sets one's teeth on edge)-who have extracted all his superfluous coin by their clamorous entreaties to purchase the toys for which Geisslingen is celebrated. If such be his fate, then the castles of Helfenstein and Hohenstauffen will be passed by unregarded, and the rich vineyards which cover the slopes from Plochingen to Stuttgart will display

their charms in vain.

But, if his love for the picturesque be still a living sensation, he may hasten from the capital of Wurtemburg to Heilbronn, and from the waters of the Neckar gaze upon the lovely shores between which he glides, enchanted with all that meets his glance.

That his faculties of taste and smell be not offended, I would recommend the adventurous voyager, when in Stuttgart, neither to put up at the Hotel de Russie, nor walk in the Palace Gardens. The proprietor of the hotel, M. Albisser, is a very civil, good-humoured fellow, and speaks very good English, but the fare that awaits one is as indifferent-not to say bad-as can anywhere be met with. The merry host either is-or seems to be wholly unconscious of the wretched state of his cuisine, and when last I was there carried his impenetrability so far as to inquire, when he accidentally encountered me on the staircase, if I had not had "a very good breakfast!" It cost me no effort to return a most decided negative, on which M. Albisser suddenly wheeled about and rushed into the kitchen, as if for the purpose of uttering an indignant remonstrance,-but-I saw him no more! As this was not the first time that I had found the cookery of the Hotel de Russie at a discount, I think I may presume that there is a radical defect in the purveyor's department of that establishment. Murray recommends-and, in nine times out of ten, it is best to follow his recommendation-Marcquardt's hotel, in the Königs Strasse, which, though dear, is a good one. The Palace Gardens are very prettily laid out; the foliage is luxuriant, the walks shady, the orange-trees bloom in