strangers, and asked what this visit meant. Lieutenant Lindsay answered that the soldiers came as friends, and wanted nothing but quarters...They were kindly received, and were lodged under the thatched roofs of the little community. Provisions were liberally supplied. There was no want of beef, which had probably fattened in distant pastures; nor was any payment demanded, for in hospitality, as in thievery, the Gaelic marauders rivalled the Bedouins. During twelve days the soldiers lived familiarly with the people of the glen.

Meanwhile Glenlyon observed with minute attention all the avenues by which, when the signal for the slaughter should be given, the Macdonalds might attempt to escape to the hills; and he reported the result of his observations to his superior, Hamilton... Hamilton fixed five o'clock in the morning of the thirteenth of February for the deed. He hoped that before that time he should reach Glencoe with four hundred men, and should have stopped all the earths in which the old fox and his two cubs, so Mac Ian and his sons were nicknamed by the murderers, could take refuge. But at five precisely, whether Hamilton had arrived or not, Glenlyon was to fall on, and to slay every Macdonald under seventy.

The night was rough. Hamilton and his troops made slow progress, and were long after their time. While they were contending with the wind and snow, Glenlyon was supping and playing at cards with those whom he meant to butcher before daybreak. He and Lieutenant Linsday had engaged themselves to dine with the old Chief on the morrow.

Late in the evening a vague suspicion that some evil was intended crossed the mind of the Chief's eldest son. The soldiers were evidently in a restless state, and some of them uttered strange cries. Two men, it is said, were overheard whispering. "I do not like this job," one of them muttered: "I should be glad to fight the Macdonalds. But to kill men in their beds - "We must do as we are bid," answered another voice. "If there is anything wrong, our officers must answer for it" ... John Macdonald was so uneasy, that, soon after midnight, he went to Glenlyon's quarters. Glenlyon and his men were all up, and seemed to be getting their arms ready for action. John, much alarmed, asked what these preparations meant. Glenlyon was profuse of friendly assurances. "Some of Glengarry's people have been harrying the country. We are getting ready to march against them. You are quite safe. Do you think that, if you were in any danger, I should not have given a hint to your brother Sandy

and his wife?"... John's suspicions were quieted. He returned to his house, and lay down to rest.

It was five in the morning. Hamilton and his men were still some miles off, and the avenues which they were to have secured were open. But the orders which Glenlyon had received were precise; and he began to execute them at the little village where he was himself quartered... His host Inverrigen and nine other Macdonalds were dragged out of their beds, bound hand and foot, and murdered. A boy, twelve years old, clung round the captain's legs, and begged hard for life. He would do anything; he would go anywhere; he would follow Glenlyon round the world. Even Glenlyon, it is said, showed signs of relenting; but a ruffian, named Drummond, shot the child dead.

Meanwhile Lindsay had knocked at the door of the old Chief, and had asked for admission in friendly language. The door was opened. Mac Ian, while putting on his clothes and calling to his servants to bring some refreshment for his visitors, was shot through the head... His wife was already up, and dressed in such finery as the princesses of the rude Highland glens were accustomed to wear. The assassins pulled off her clothes and trinkets. The rings were not easily taken from her fingers, but a soldier tore them away with his teeth. She died on the following day.

The peal and flash of gun after gun gave notice, from three different parts of the valley at once, that murder was doing. From fifty cottages the half naked peasantry fled under cover of the night, to the recesses of their pathless glen. Even the sons of Mac Ian, who had been especially marked out for destruction, contrived to escape. They were roused from sleep by faithful servants. John, who by the death of his father, had become the patriarch of the tribe, quitted his dwelling just as twenty soldiers with fixed bayonets marched up to it.

It was broad day long before Hamilton arrived. He found the work not even half performed. About thirty corpses lay wallowing in blood on the dunghills before the doors. One or two women were seen among the number, and a yet more fearful and piteous sight, a little hand, which had been lopped in the tumult of the butchery from some infant... One aged Macdonald was found alive. He was probably too infirm to flee, and, as he was above seventy, was not included in the orders under which Glenlyon had acted. Hamilton murdered the old man in cold blood ... The deserted hamlets were then set on fire; and the troops departed, driving away with them

many sheep and goats, nine hundred kine, and two hundred of the small shaggy ponies of the Highlands.

It is said, and may but too easily be believed, that the sufferings of the fugitives were terrible. How many old men, how many women with babes in their arms, sank down and slept their last sleep in the snow; how many, having crawled, spent with toil and hunger, into nooks among the precipices, died in those dark holes, and were picked to the bone by the mountain ravens, can never be known. But it is probable that those who perished by cold, weariness, and want, were not less numerous than those who were slain by the assassins.

When the troops had retired, the Macdonalds crept out of the caverns of Glencoe, ventured back to the spot where the huts had formerly stood, collected the scorched corpses from among the smoking ruins, and performed some rude rites of sepulture... The tradition runs that the hereditary bard of the tribe took his seat on a rock which overhung the place of slaughter, and poured forth a long lament over his murdered brethren and his desolate home. Eighty years later that sad dirge was still chanted by the people of the valley. Macaulay.

A TALE OF TERROR.

I WAS once travelling in Calabria, a land of wicked people who, I believe, hate every one, and particularly the French; the reason why would take long to tell you. Suffice it to say that they mortally hate us, and that one gets on very badly when one falls into their hands. In these mountains the roads are precipices; our horses got on with much difficulty; my companion went first. A path which appeared to him shorter and more practicable led us astray. It was my fault. Ought I to have trusted to a head only twenty years old?... Whilst daylight lasted we tried to find our way through the wood, but the more we tried the more bewildered we became, and it was pitch dark when we arrived at a very black-looking house. We entered, not without fear; but what could we do? We found a whole family of colliers at table. They immediately invited us to join them; my young man did not wait to be pressed. There we were eating and drinking; he at least, for I was examining the place and the appearance of our hosts.

Our hosts had quite the look of colliers, but the house you would have taken for an arsenal. There was nothing but guns,

pistols, swords, knives, and cutlasses. Everything displeased me, and I saw very well that I displeased them My companion, on the contrary, was quite one of the family; he laughed and talked with them, and with an imprudence that I ought to have foreseen, he told at once where we came from, where we were going, and that we were Frenchmen. Just imagine! amongst our most mortal enemies, alone, out of our road, so far from all human succor, and then to omit nothing that might ruin us, he played the rich man; promised to give the next morning, as a remuneration to these people and to our guides, whatever they wished... Then he spoke of his portmanteau, begging them to take care of it, and to put it at the head of his bed; he did not wish, he said, for any other pillow. Oh, youth, youth, you are to be pitied! Cousin, one would have thought that we carried the crown diamonds...Supper over, they left us. Our hosts slept below; we in the upper room where we had supped. A loft, raised some seven or eight feet, which was reached by a ladder, was the restingplace that awaited us; a sort of nest, into which we were to introduce ourselves by creeping under joists loaded with provisions for the year... My companion climbed up alone, and, already nearly asleep, laid himself down with his head upon the precious portmanteau ... Having determined to sit up, I made a good fire, and seated myself by the side of it. The night, which had been undisturbed, was nearly over, and I began to reassure myself; when, about the time that I thought the break of day could not be far off, I heard our host and his wife talking and disputing below; and, putting my ear to the chimney which communicated with the one in the lower room, I perfectly distinguished these words, spoken by the husband: "Well, let us see, must they both be killed ?" To which the wife replied, "Yes;" and I heard no more... How shall I go on? I stood scarcely breathing; my body cold as marble. To have seen me you could hardly have known if I were dead or alive... Good heavens, when I think of it now! We two, almost without weapons, against twelve or fifteen, who had so many, and my companion dead with sleep and fatigue! To call him, or make a noise, I dared not; to escape alone was impossible. The window was not high, but below were two great dogs, howling like wolves. In what an agony I was, imagine if you can... At the end of a long quarter of an hour I heard some one on the stairs, and through the crack of the door I saw the father, his lamp in one hand, and in the other one of his large knives. He came up, his wife after him. I was be

hind the door. He opened it, but before he came in he put down the lamp, which his wife took. He then entered barefoot, and from outside the woman said to him, in a low voice, shading the light of the lamp with her hand, "Softly, go softly.' When he got to the ladder, he mounted it, his knife between his teeth; and getting up as high as the bed,the poor young man lying with his throat bare,-with one hand he grasped his knife, and, with the other, oh, cousin!—he seized a ham which hung from the ceiling, cut a slice from it, and retired as he had come ... The door was closed again, the lamp vanished, and I was left alone with my reflections...As soon as day appeared, all the family, making a great noise, came to awaken us, as we had requested. They brought us something to eat, and gave us a very clean and a very good breakfast, I assure you... Two capons formed part of it, of which we must, said our hostess, take away one and eat the other. When I saw them I understood the meaning of those terrible words, "Must they both be killed ?" And I think, cousin, you have enough penetration to guess now what they signified. Courier.

FIRST. IMPRESSIONS OF A YOUNG SAILOR.

WITH all my imperfections on my head, I joined my first ship, and we hauled out into the stream, and came to anchor for the night. The next morning was Saturday, and a breeze having sprung up from the southward, we took a pilot on board, hove up our anchor, and began beating down the bay... I took leave of those of my friends who had come to see me off, and I had barely opportunity to take a last look at the city of my birth, as no time is allowed on board ship for sentiment. As we drew down into the lower harbor, we found the wind ahead in the bay, and were obliged to come to anchor in the roads... We remained there through the day, and a part of the night. About midnight the wind became fair, and having roused the captain, I was ordered to call all hands. How I accomplished this I do not know; but I am quite sure that I did not give the true boatswain song of "A-a-ll ha-a-nds! up anchor, a-ho-oy!" In a short time every one was in motion, the sail loosed, the yards braced, and we began to heave up the anchor, which was our last hold upon Yankee land. I could take but little part in all these preparations: my little knowledge of a