said,
And on thy fair forehead the blessed cross laid.

Soft, soft be thy slumbers, our lady receive thee,
And shining in glory for ever thy soul be;
To the climes of the blessed, my own grama-chree,
May blessings attend thee, sweet cushla ma-chree.

As we passed the jemseg, we spoke of the time when Madame la Tour so
bravely defended the fort in the absence of her husband--this occurred
in the early times of the province, and strange stories are told of
spirit forms which glide along the beach, beneath whose sands the white
bones of the French and Indians, who fell in the deadly fight, lie
buried. Talking of these things, induced Mrs. Gordon to tell us the
following tale, which she had heard, and which I have entitled

A WINTER'S EVENING SKETCH,

WRITTEN IN NEW BRUNSWICK.

"Oh! there's a dream of early youth,
And it never comes again;
'Tis a vision of joy, and light, and truth,
That flits across the brain;
And love is the theme of that early dream,
So wild, so warm, so new.
And oft I ween, in our after-years,
That early dream we rue."---Mrs. HEMANS.

The winter's eve had gathered o'er New Brunswick, and the snow was
falling, as in that clime it only knows how to fall. The atmosphere was
like the face of Sterne's monk, "calm, cold, and penetrating," and the
faint tinkling of the sleigh bells came mournfully on the ear as a knell
of sadness--so utterly cheerless was the scene. Another hour passed, and
our journey was ended. The open door of the hospitable dwelling was
ready to receive us, and in the light and heat of a happy home, toil and
trouble were alike forgotten.

There is always something picturesque in the interior of a New Brunswick
farm house, and this evening everything assumed an aspect of interest
and beauty. It might have been the comfortable contrast to the scene
without that threw its mellow tints around. Even the homely loom and
spinning-wheel lost their uncouthness, and recalled to the mind's
imagery the classic dreams of old romance--Hercules in the chambers of
Omphale the story of Arachne and Penelope, the faithful wife of brave
Ulysses; but there was other food for the spirit which required not the
aid of fancy to render palatable. On the large centre table, round which
were grouped the household band, with smiling brows and happy hearts,
lay the magazines and papers of the day, with their sweet tales and
poetic gems. The "Amulet