d the whole
conclave from their stupor. They started up, and by a simultaneous
effort rushed to the window. There they beheld the tall figure of a man,
enveloped in a black cloak, walking across the yard on his way to the
stable. He had on a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, top-boots, with
enormous spurs, and carried a gigantic whip in one hand, and a
portmanteau in the other. He entered the stable, remained there about
three minutes, and came out leading forth his fiery steed thoroughly
accoutred. In the twinkling of an eye he got upon his back, waved his
hand to the company, who were surveying him through the window, and
clapping spurs to his charger, galloped off furiously, with a hideous
and unnatural laugh, through the midst of the storm.

"On going up stairs to the room which the devil had honoured with his
presence, the landlord found that his infernal majesty had helped
himself to every thing he could lay his hands upon, having broken into
his desk and carried off twenty-five guineas of king's money, a ten
pound Bank of England note, and sundry articles, such as seals,
snuff-boxes, &c. Since that time he has not been seen in these quarters,
and if he should, he will do well to beware of Doctor Poundtext, who is
a civil magistrate as well as a minister, and who, instead of exorcising
him to the bottom of the Red Sea, may perhaps exorcise him to the
interior of Leicester gaol, to await his trial before the judges of the
midland circuit."

Next is the Omen, by Mr. Galt, a powerful sketch. Affixed to St.
Feinah's Tree, a Legend of Loch Neagh, we notice the signature of an
esteemed correspondent, (M.L.B.) whose taste and ingenuity entitle her
to high rank among the contributors to the present work. Kemp, the
Bandit, by Delta, is an interesting tale; Life and Shade, a Portuguese
Sketch, by Mrs. M. Baillie, is in her best narrative style; and Seeking
the Houdy, by the Ettrick Shepherd, is in his happiest familiar vein.
The curiosity of the volume, and indeed, the only poetical contribution
we have room to notice, is the following lines of Lord Byron, written in
his boyhood, to "Mary," (Mrs. Musters,) about a year before her
marriage:--

Adieu to sweet Mary for ever;
From her I must quickly depart;
Though the Fates us from each other sever,
Still her image will dwell in my heart.

The flame that within my heart burns,
Is unlike what in lovers hearts glows;
The love which for Mary I feel,