world of Ashgrove, he was much respected, consulted as an oracle upon all matters connected with husbandry, and appealed to by parochial authorities, in doubtful and delicate cases, as a man acquainted with every rood of land in the parish.

With his master, he was on the best terms imaginable; fearlessly trusted, and entirely trust-worthy. Every thing indeed, animate and inanimate, seemed to prosper under his care. There was also a peculiar tie between them. On one occasion, when Walton was breaking in a young horse, John had saved of his master, at the imminent peril of his own. Unsocial as his manner unquestionably was, the frank kindness of Walton seemed to open his heart. The children, too, became his pets and playthings: they climbed his knee, stroked his rough face with familiar fondness, and his long arm was frequently in request to reach a bough of hawthorn, a sprig of eglantine, or a cluster of ripe nuts: the eldest boy often followed him round the farm; there were young lambs to be seen, or rabbits to be hunted, or John would take him to the copse, where the finest primroses, harebells, and violets were to be found. Indeed, Cumming was treated in this family with the indulgence of a relative, rather than the distance usual with a hired servant.

A singular and fearful incident at length interrupted this happy state of things. Mrs. Walton was one night suddenly awakened by a deep groan from her husband: he started up in bed, his whole frame convulsed with terror, and continued for some minutes in a state of speechless agitation. At length the tremor began a little to subside, and looking fearfully around him, he exclaimed, "Thank God!—it is but a dream!" Still, however, he trembled exceedingly; and after vainly endeavouring to compose himself, arose, and walked about the

room.

66

"It is but a dream," he repeated, in a low tone;

but, oh! how fearfully, how dreadfully distinct." He threw open the window: it was a still, balmy night in June, and the whole earth seemed wrapped in the softest quietude; the stars in glory and beauty were keeping their night-watches; and through the rich woods that clothed the hills, not a leaf stirred. A dewy fragrance stole from the woodbine, that hung its tangled wreaths around the window, and Walton felt his spirit soothed by the delicious calm of nature.

"All was so still, so soft in earth and air,
You scarce would start to meet a spirit there;
Secure that nought of evil could delight
To walk in such a scene, on such a night!"

He slept little more; and rising with the dawn, made a strong effort to shake off the impression of his fearful dream, but in vain; neither

"The active day so boon and bright,"

nor his own cheerful temperament, availed; he reasoned with himself again, and again he exclaimed,

"How absurd to be thus harassed by an idle dream!"

All would not do; the images conjured up in sleep, haunted him with strange pertinacity; he resisted the solicitation of his wife, whose curiosity was very naturally excited, and refused to relate the circumstances which had so affected him.

"Why should I infect your mind with images of horror?" said he; "It would only increase the difficulty of dismissing them from my own, which I intend to do with all possible speed. Not one more word will we say on the subject."

A week elapsed. Walton adhered to his resolution, and his impressions had lost some of their horror and intenseness, when precisely the same dream was repeated; the circumstances did not vary in a single point; the scene again appeared before him with the most vivid and intense distinct

ness. Still more agitated, still more deeply impressed, he no longer refused himself the relief of imparting the particulars to his wife.

"It is most remarkable," exclaimed he, "that this dream is entirely free from all confusion and indistinctness; every object and every circumstance are as clearly marked and defined, as if all were reality instead of illusion.

"I thought that I was walking on a fine, calm night through a green lane a few miles from Ashgrove the moon shone brightly; and I came to a spot where the lane jutted out into a sort of broad bay. A large oak threw its rugged arms across the greensward; and at a few yards distance, ran a clear brook, over which was thrown a single plank by way of bridge: an old grey weeping ash, half despoiled of its branches, hung over it. As I stood watching the moonbeams softly playing over the little stream, two figures appeared slowly and silently advancing from that part of the lane which was wrapped in shade: the one wore the dress of a sailor, neat and trim, as if in his holiday garb; the other was considerably taller, habited in a carter's frock and thick shoes, like a ploughman just returned from his work. Though I heard no sound, yet their gestures appeared animated; and on the country

man's part, violent; the countenance of the sailor seemed to wear an arch smile; they paused a moment under the oak; the gestures of the rustic betrayed increasing and frightful violence. At length he suddenly seized upon the sailor, threw him on the ground, grasped his throat with a demon-like force, and after a few moments of fierce struggle, the man lay a corpse at his feet. I thought that I had no power to move or speak; my feet were rooted to the spot, while the murderer stood motionless, contemplating in silence his savage work, and the stiffening form of his victim.

"While I still gazed in unspeakable horror, the earth suddenly clave asunder, and again closed over the corpse of the murdered man. Every vestige of the bloody deed had vanished; the ruffian stood alone. At this moment, the moon shone with the most refulgent brightness. Suddenly he seemed invested with an atmosphere of light; he threw up his hands and eyes, as if in agony, then turned towards me; every line of his face and figure stood out with the cold, clear distinctness of a statue. The murderer was JOHN CUMMING!"

"How strange!" exclaimed Mrs. Walton, in a low tremulous tone; "how very dreadful!"

Several minutes elapsed, and not another word