to behold themselves in as they sailed through the spangled or dappled firmament. Beyond this lake arose high hills, at noonday almost indistinguishable from the blue sky, but at sunset glowing in the richest purple, like a sapphire barrier to the dim horizon. One evening in autumn as Ernest sat by his blazing fire and listened to the wind which roared past his dwelling, shaking the little casement till the leaves of the wild vine which curled around it fell rustling to the earth, he heard suddenly the latchet of his door raised. A man clothed in a dark mantle, with long hair, and a beard of raven blackness, entered. At sight of this singular figure he started up, and the stranger immediately accosted him as follows: ‘My name is Rufus Warner. I come from a great distance, and having been overtaken by darkness in the valley I looked about for some roof where I might pass the night. At length I espied a light streaming through this window. I made the best of my way to it, and now I request shelter from you.’ Ernest, after gazing a moment at him, complied with his demand. He closed the door, and they both seated themselves by the fire. They sat thus for some time without interchanging a word, the stranger with his eyes intently fixed on the ascending flame, apparently quite inattentive to any other object; and Ernest as intently viewing him, and revolving in his mind who he might be—the cause of his strange attire—his long beard—his unbroken taciturnity—not unmixed with a feeling of awe allied to fear at the presence of a being of whose nature he was totally ignorant, and who, for aught he knew, might be the harbinger of no good to his humble dwelling. Dim, dreamlike reminiscences passed slowly across his mind concerning tales of spirits who, in various shapes; had appeared to men shortly before their deaths, as if to prepare them for the ghostly society with which they would soon have to mingle. At length, to relieve himself of these almost insupportable thoughts, he ventured to accost his mysterious guest by inquiring whence he came. ‘From a rich and fruitful land,’ replied the stranger, ‘where the trees bear without ceasing, and earth casts up flowers which sparkle like jewels, the sun shines for ever, and the moon and stars are not quenched even at noonday; where the rocks lose themselves in the skies, and the tops of the mountains are invisible by reason of the firmament which rests upon them.’ The answer, uttered in a hollow and hoarse voice, convinced Ernest of the truth of his surmises; but a charm seemed to have been cast upon him which prevented him from being overcome by terror, and he replied as follows: ‘If what you say is true, I should like exceedingly to follow you into your country instead of remaining here, where I am often chilled by frost and icy winds, and saddened by the absence of the cheering warmth of the sun.’