Fair is the blossom of the thorn, And bright the morning dew is; But sweeter than the dewy morn The smiles of Nancy Lewis. The eye that's sparkling black I love, Ay, more than that which blue is; And thine are like two stars above, And sloe black--Nancy Lewis. Alas! alas! their power I feel; My bosom pierced right through is: In pity, then, my bosom heal, My charming Nancy Lewis. Oh! bless me with thy heaven of charms, And take a heart that true is, While circling life my bosom warms In thine dear Nancy Lewis. F. G----N. * * * * * THE NOVELIST No. CXII. * * * * * A MOUNTAIN STORY. In one of the most picturesque parts of the western Highlands of Scotland stands an inn, which is much frequented by travellers. This inn itself adds considerably to the beauty of the landscape. It was formerly a manor-house; and the sedate grandeur of its appearance is in such good keeping with the scenes in its neighbourhood, and so little in accordance with its present appropriation, that travellers more commonly stop at the gate to inquire the way to the inn, than drive up at once through the green field which is spread before its windows, and its fine flight of stone steps. Very few dwellings are to be seen from it; and those few are mere cottages, chiefly inhabited by the fishermen of the loch. One of these cottages is my dwelling. It stands so near to the inn, that I can observe all that goes forward there; but it is so over-shadowed and hidden by trees, that I doubt not the greater proportion of the visiters to the inn are quite unaware that such a cottage is in existence; and of the thousand sketches which artists and amateurs have carried away with them, perhaps not one bears any trace of the lowly chimneys, or the humble porch of my dwelling.