Christianity was imposed upon Scotland by
the sword, when a marriage turned out
unsatisfactorily it was dissolved by the one
party going out by the north and the other
by the south door of the parish church.
All laws and institutions must be viewed
to be understood in reference to the moral
spirit and public opinion of the populations
governed by them. The indignation of the
Don people against domestic treason was
terrible. When their fierce puritanism was
rebuked by the milder liberalism of the
nineteenth century, they answered, "You will
never in any other way keep up a breed of
men fit to fight the French." The Scandinavians,
Northmen, or Normans have been for
a thousand years the masters of Gauls and
Saxons, and their notions are worthy of the
consideration of physiologists and statesmen.
Thirty or forty years after I was taught the
opinions of the Don folks, I listened to
lectures of celebrated professors of physiology
in the French metropolis, who described and
deplored the results of opposite maxims and
different manners among the French youth,
and the substance of their science was this—
"with our liberal morals, we shall never have
a race fit to keep the foreigner out of Paris."

THE GRAVE IN THE MOORLAND.

Low lieth it, long grass upon it waving,
Wide lieth it, storm-winds around it raving:
No stone marketh it: it is all alone,
The day and the night through alone, alone.
Upon the northern slope of the black-fell
Deep hidden midst the purple heather swell;
A little mound, unhallowed, all alone
The day and the night through, alone, alone.

No foot seeketh it: it heareth no sound of weeping,
No heart guardeth it, a faithful vigil keeping.
They who loved it are gone—all dead and gone,
They have their rest 'neath graven stone;
It hath the snows, and winds, and rains of God
Moaning for ever on its lonely sod;
They have their cross and crown—it is alone,
The day and the night through, alone, alone.

Unquiet heart! proud, sinful, maddened heart!
Is rest with thee, poor, broken, weary heart?
Or hath its dust a throb and pant of pain—
Hast thou ta'en Death unto thyself in vain?
When men speak of thee, they speak hushed and low,
As if they feared that sounds could come and go
From them to where thou liest all alone
The day and the night through alone, alone.

When the white shimmer of the moonlight glideth
Along the lonely fells, the darkness hideth
About thy grave, thy wild, unholy grave;
No angel step resteth beside thy grave.
The sunshine, morn, noon, eve, doth pass it by,
The rank grass waveth, but no flowers grow nigh,
Nor God nor man cometh, it is alone
The day and the night through alone, alone.

O! coward heart, that couldst not strive nor bear,
Thou wast aweary, aweary of despair.
Thou wouldst have rest, and now thou art alone,
The day and the night through, alone, alone.
Thy name haunteth a memory here and there,
Lips breathe it like a curse upon the air,
None, with love, remember thee—thou art alone
The day and the night through, alone, alone,
Ever alone.

ERIC WALDERTHORN.

IN SEVEN CHAPTERS. CHAPTER THE FIRST.

"ERIC!"

"Carl!"

These exclamations of surprise proceeded
from the lips of two young men, who, after
disencumbering themselves from various
wrappings of cloaks and furs, found
themselves suddenly face to face, in the
middle of the coffee-room of one of the
principal hotels of Stettin. In their haste to
approach the fire, which was blazing as
merrily as logs heaped with coal could blaze, they
had nearly knocked each other down, and it
was in turning simultaneously to ask each
other pardon that they had each recognised a
well-known face. The light fell full upon
their animated countenances and sparkling
eyes, as they stood in the middle of the room,
their right hands locked in a hearty grasp,
and their left still placed where they had
seized each other by the shoulder. They
were both fine specimens of early manhood.
One, the tallest of the two, had a noble
Teuton countenance. Rich brown hair fell
back from a forehead of the finest intellectual
development, whilst beneath eyebrows of a
somewhat darker hue, looked forth large eyes
of deep violet, which, whatever expression
they might wear in repose, now beamed and
flashed almost as brightly as the fire. The
other, who had been addressed as Carl, had a
Saxon countenance, the fair hair, the bright
blue eye, the rounded chin, and, despite the
fair skin, the bold fearless bearing which
distinguish that hardy race amongst all
others.

"Why, Eric," said this last, "it seems but
yesterday that I parted with you in sunny
Rome. I little thought to have met with you
here, in the frost and snow of a Pomeranian
winter."

"And little did I expect to meet you here
to-night, my dear Carl. Where are you
going?"

"I am going to Rabenstein, to the house of
a friend who lives in the neighbourhood. I
made his acquaintance in Munich last winter,
and he promised me, if I would go and see
him, to give me some wolf-hunting. And,
as I was tired of Paris and the Carnival, I
thought I would try Rabenstein by way of a
change."

"A change, I should say, very much more
to your taste, my Carl. But you are going my
way; why not come with me, an old friend,
instead of going to see this new friend? I
am on my road to Kronenthal, as you may
guess. Ernst is going to be married, and I
am to be his best-man. Come with me; you
will be a most welcome guest, and we can