ascend to his master's apartment, but this time it was a stranger whom he ushered in, `Mr Milton Smith!' The Baron hastily rose from his seat at the unwonted name, and advanced to meet his visitor.

`Greetings fair, noble sir,' commenced the illustrious visitor, in a pompous tone and with a toss of the head, `it betided me to hear of your name and abode, and I made high resolve to visit and behold you ere night!' `Well, fair sir, I hope you are satisfied with the sight,' interrupted the Baron, wishing to cut short a conversation he neither understood nor liked. `It rejoiceth me,' was the reply, `nay, so much so that I could wish to prolong the pleasure, for there is a Life and Truth in those tones which recall to me scenes of earlier days--' `Does it indeed?' said the Baron, considerably puzzled. `Ay soothly,' returned the other; `and now I bethink me,' walking to the window, `it was the country likewise I did desire to look upon; 'tis fine, is't not?' `It's a very fine country,' replied the Baron, adding internally, `and I wish you were well out of it!'

The stranger stood some minutes gazing out of the window, and then said, suddenly turning to the Baron, `You must know, fair sir, that I am a poet!' `Really?' replied he, `and pray what's that?' Mr Milton Smith made no reply, but continued his observations, `Perceive you, mine host, the enthusiastic halo which encircles you tranquil mead?' `The quickset hedge, you mean,' remarked the Baron rather contemptuously, as he walked up to the window. `My mind,' continued his guest, `feels alway a bounding--and a longing--for-- what is True and Fair in Nature, and--and--see you not the gorgeous rusticity--I mean sublimity, which is wafted over, and as it were intermingled with the verdure--that is, you know, the grass?' `Intermingled with the grass? oh! you mean the butter-cups?' said the other, `yes, they've a very pretty effect.' `Pardon me,' replied Mr Milton Smith, `I meant not that, but--but I could almost poetise thereon!

`Lovely meadow, thou whose fragrance
Beams beneath the azure sky,

`Where repose the lowly--' `Vagrants,' suggested the Baron: `Vagrants!' repeated the poet, staring with astonishment, `Yes, vagrants, gipsies you know,' coolly replied his host, `there are very often some sleeping down in the meadow.' The inspired one shrugged his shoulders, and went on

`Where repose the lowly violets', `Violets doesn't rhyme half as well as vagrants,' argued the Baron. `Can't help that,' was the reply:

`Murmuring gently'--`oh my eye!' said the Baron, finishing the line for him, `so there's one stanza done, and now I must wish you good night; you're welcome to a bed, so, when you've done poetising, ring the bell, and the servant will show you where to sleep.' `Thanks,' replied the poet, as the Baron left the room.

`Murmuring gently with a sigh--Ah! that's all right,' he continued when the door was shut, and leaning out of the window he gave a low whistle. The mysterious figure in a cloak immediately emerged from the bushes, and said in a whisper, `All right?' `All right,' returned the poet, `I've sent the old covey to sleep with some poetry, by the bye I nearly forgot that stanza you taught me, I got into such a fix! However the coast is clear now, so look sharp.' The figure then produced a rope ladder from under his cloak, which the poet proceeded to draw up.

READER! dare you enter once more the cave of the great Magician? If your heart be not bold, abstain: close these pages: read no more. High in air suspended hung the withered forms of two black cats; between was an owl, resting on a self-supported hideous viper.

The spiders were crawling on the long grey hair of the great Astrologer, as he wrote with letters of gold an awful spell on the magic scroll which hung from the deadly viper's mouth. A strange figure like an animated potatoe with arms and legs hovered over the mystic scroll, and appeared to be reading the words upside down. Hark!

A shrill scream rolled round the cave, echoing from side to side till it died in the massive roof. Horror! yet did not the Magician's heart quail, albeit his little finger shook slightly thrice, and one of his grey