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by expiring fury, with fiendish glee they defiantly gnashed their teeth and cursed the God of heaven! Then, with returning strength, and exhausting its last and fitful energies in still louder imprecations and more fearful yells, they deliberately, and with unanimous voice, consigned their guilty souls to the nethermost hell!

Fatal words! In a bright, broad sheet of lurid and sulphurous flame the Prince of Darkness appeared in their midst, and struck-not the shaft of death, but the vitality of eternal life -and there to this day in that dreaded room they sit, transfixed in all their hideous expression of ghastly terror and dismay the cups of wine spread o'er their bacchanalian shrine, and the dice clattering and rattling as of yore-terribly, yet justly, doomed to drink the wine-cup and throw the dice till the dawning of the GREAT JUDGMENT DAY!

This legend is founded on an incident which is said to have occurred during one of the carousals of the Earl of Crawford, otherwise styled " Earl Beardie," or the "Tiger Earl," in what is now called the "Secret Room" of the Castle. This room has often been sought for, and while every other part of the Castle has been satisfactorily explored, the search for this celebrated and historic chamber has been in vain. It is said that this room is only known to two, or at most three, individuals at the same time, who are bound not to reveal it unless to their successors in the secret.




We cannot pass this shady grove,
For o'er it hangs a tale of love,
So tender I must tell it thee,
Though full of awe and mystery :-
You see these lofty beechen trees,
Which, moaning, sigh upon the breeze-
An alcove deep of darksome gloom,
O'erhung with shadows of the tomb :
Within that ghostly, gloomy shade,
There lies a broken-hearted maid,
Whose sad and melancholy tale
Is whispered by the passing gale,
Startling with horror and affright

The poor benighted luckless wight.

The Hunter Hill of Glamis, as has already been noted, is one of the most beautifully romantic and historically interesting spots in Scotland. It is of vast extent and great height. The wood of Thornton, in which the bloody tragedy recorded in the legend of the murder of Malcolm II. took place, is in reality part of the Hunter Hill, and not a distinct and separate wood as is generally supposed. In this hill and the Castle, therefore, centre nearly all the tales of chivalry and legends of romance which appertain to the district.

The Castle in all its unique grandeur and feudal magnificence I have already attempted to describe. The visits of the tourist and traveller to Glamis embrace often little else than the old hoary pile and its interesting and beautiful surroundings. They, therefore, know comparatively little of the general character of the far-stretching scenery beyond, vieing as it does in bold and rugged outline and quiet nestling

scenes of soft and sylvan beauty with those of any country in Europe.

From the gates of the Castle pathways the most beautiful and attractive stretch away in every direction, overshadowed with the umbrageous branches of the beech and oak, and vocal with the thrilling music of the gay and happy birds. Now passing through a sheltered and bosky dell, with the slow rolling Dean flowing musically through its midst; anon pursuing our devious way over an open, flower-gemmed, breezy common, gazing in rapture at the lofty battlements and towers of the Castle, as an occasional opening in the distant wood reveals them suddenly to our view; we find ourselves among shady, dreamy groves of overhanging trees, their green, interlacing leaves intermingled with the golden blossoms of the beautiful laburnum, hanging in rich luxuriance from the pendant boughs; and still proceeding westward, we reach with delightful joy the much-loved, solemn forest paths, as lovely and beautiful as any of the justly celebrated “ green lanes" of England, and while roaming among the waving woodlands, may muse and dream away a long, long summer's day in all the mental luxuriance of aspiring thought and spiritual repose.

But our present destination being the Hunter Hill, our route must be in another direction. We shall, therefore, proceed through the village, turning to the right at the bridge; and, passing on our way the village green, we cross the rustic bridge, and bend our course up the wooded ravine, which now silently invites us to view its wild and sylvan beauty.

After crossing the bridge at the reservoir, we can either proceed to the summit of the hill by the direct road to which this leads, or we may have a delightful zig-zag ramble in the waving and beautiful woodland, until we come within sight of the village; and then, turning eastward, pass through bosky dells, and over gently sloping hillocks, covered with the green and beautiful bushes of the blaeberry, purpled richly in summer with prolific clusters of mellow fruit, the coveted

prize of the village urchins, who resort in eager and happy groups from far and near to fill their burnished and capacious flagons with the coveted berries. The star-like and beautiful anemone flourishes in great abundance all around; and the varied display of ferns which everywhere meets the eye forms of itself a most interesting and instructive study to the botanist.

The grove alluded to in the following legend is about midway up the hill, proceeding eastward. It presents this remarkable appearance, that it is composed entirely of beech, while all around grow the birch and the mountain pine.

Edmund Græme, the only son of a neighbouring proprietor on the other side of the hill, was as fair and handsome a youth as could be seen or admired in the whole Howe of Strathmore. His form well-knit and manly, complexion clear and ruddy, dreamy eyes of cerulean blue, and luxuriant tresses of wavy gold, he presented and became the very beau ideal, to the maidens of his native strath, of all that constitutes the externals of the real cavalier, gently and finely blended with the true and loving tenderness of a genuine human heart. Of a happy and enthusiastic temperament, his ringing voice and winning smile might have beguiled the heart of any damsel, whether of low or high degree. Yet, although many a longing eye would gaze on him with the deepest, fondest love, these glances of affectionate feeling failed to reach his inner heart; and at the banquet hall, or beneath the greenwood tree, his smile continued as fascinating and sweet, and his song as captivating and joyous as ever.

At length his countenance grew shrunk and pale-the bloom of youth had faded from his cheek, and the lustre of gladsome joy had departed from his eye. No melting strains of impassioned song were wafted on the passing gale from his now trembling, ashy lips, but a weird and ominous silence rested in the chamber of death, where, on his couch of darkness, they had laid him down to die!

Some stood in grief around his lowly bed, while others.

affectionately held his hot and aching head; all silently wondering what dark and poisonous sorrow it could be that in so brief a space had mysteriously wrought a change so heart-rending and unaccountable. As they gazed, still sharper and sharper grew his shrunken, death-like features; his bosom heaved like the swelling billows of a dark and troubled sea; and his lips gave forth tortured and fitful expression to stifled groans of deep, unutterable agony! All wishing he would speak and solve the dreadful mystery, he wildly yet coherently uttered, in shrill affecting tones that pierced every heart, the well known name of one he had loved.

Scarcely were the words uttered, when a rustling noise was suddenly heard in the now dimly-lighted chamber of the dying youth. The attendants in amazement looked around whence the sound proceeded. Before them stood, in robes of flowing white, and with a sad, dejected air, a form of queenly and majestic beauty. Waving her jewelled hand on high, she, like a restless spirit from the other world, quickly passed them by, and stood for a moment in silence beside the dying bed of Edmund Græme. Then weeping like a sobbing child, she gently raised his drooping head, and gazed on his dim, glazed eyes with agonising and hopeless sadness, for the vital spark had fled for ever, and the dead body of her lover lay cold and helpless in her arms! Embracing the cold, cold clay, she wildly implored Almighty God to bereave her at once of life, and lay her in silence beside the slumbering dead.

Then in the hushed and awful stillness that once more prevailed, she shriekingly thus gave full vent to her torturing agony

"Oh, Edmund! Edmund! My own-my well-beloved! I wish I had died for thee! Pure as an angel's, changeless and unstained, the love you bore to me."

Then with a wild, unearthly, high authoritative air, her hand uplifted, and her bright, keen eyes piercing the innermost recesses of the soul, she conjured the watchers with witching power to meet her on the Hunter Hill that evening as the

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