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one of these. We do not think we shall ever die. This that we keep a watch upon their proceedings, and that is a latent hope in the breast of many, who are afraid al- we read them all. How many a man of genius has said most to own that they cherish it ;-with us, it is a po- to himself in his closet,—“ I am committing to paper sitive conviction, which we frankly avow. Many people thoughts and sentiments which could be appreciated by will smile at this ; but their great-grand-children, in the some, yet I shall never learn whether they meet the eyes year 1929, will begin to attach some credit to our asser- of that select few,-I shall never learn whether they extion. Meanwhile, intense is the interest we take in all cite emotions in a kindred bosom similar to those they the passing concerns of our day and generation. Some have already made to throb in mine,-I shall never learn times, it is true, we look back with a pensive sorrow on whether I am pouring forth my melodies upon the dehours that have flown for ever; we think of friends who sert air, or into the delicate shrine of the human heart." will never meet again in the same happy circles,—of voices, And in days past the man of genius may have spoken the witching music of whose tones is hushed,—and of truly; but let him speak so no more. He may be ne smiles, whose gentle moonlight is gone; we think of glected or misunderstood by all the world, but he shall be summer months that glided by like rivers ambling to the attended to and appreciated by Us. It is all one how or sea; we think of one, whose name we breathe not, even where he publishes his lucubrations ;-if in a separate in the dead hush of midnight, but whose memory sleeps, volume, we see every book that issues from the Scottish undimmed and pure as a sunless well, far down in our press, and almost every book that comes from the Engheart; we think of all that men think of when they look lish ;-if he print in a periodical, that we must meet back on youth,—its quick delicious tears and Aushings of with him for a certainty, we shall easily convince him, wild joy. But we sorrow not as those who have no hope ; if he will do us the favour to step into our study any day time flings new flowers around us, and what is still bet- we happen to have on our SLIPPERS. He will there find ter, we are as prepared to enjoy their odours and their one large table entirely covered with the latest numbers hues as we were when we first bounded, like the young of the periodicals of all Europe. He might express surfawn, up the mountain side and gathered them in handfuls. prise, perhaps, how we were able to read so much ; and There is a charm for us in every thing. We abjure that we should be surprised ourselves, did we not read as no morbid sensibility which is constantly seeking for strong common man reads ;-how we do read, it is unnecessary and coarse excitement, and complaining of the monotony of to explain; the fact is enough, that we know every thing. pleasure. The simplest sights and sounds of nature pass It is worthy of notice, how many of the best periodiinto the feeling heart, and easily awaken its fervour. The cals at present in existence are edited by Scotchmen. dew of heaven falls every night into the bell of the flower, There are, in the first place, our two leading Reviews,and every night does the flower envelope its welcome visit the Quarterly, edited by Mr Lockhart, and the Edinant with the sweetness of its perfume. If the dew and the burgh, edited first by Mr Jeffrey, and now by Mr Napier

. odour be inexhaustible, why should the heart of man, for Then there are the two Foreign Quarterly Reviews, ediwhom the dew and the odour of all nature are poured ted, the one by Mr Gillies, and the other by Mr Fraser, forth, ever turn away from the rich offering with callous both Scotchmen. Then come the Magazines, and first of indifference ? Can it be possible that music should so all Blackwood's, the sheet-anchor of which is our counsoon pall on the dull ear? Do the essence and the ele- tryman Professor Wilson, then the New Monthly, at the ments of poetry so soon mingle with the common dust? head of which is Campbell the poet, and then Sharpe's Up, and rouse thee from thy lethargy! Why should the London Magazine, started and supported by Allan Cunchild have a clearer eye, or a merrier voice, than thou? ningham. Then we have our two Philosophical Journals, Nature can never be worn out,—the soul suffers not by under the auspices of two Scotchmen eminent in science the attrition of what is material,—why should friendship -Dr Brewster and Professor Jamieson. If we next die ?—why should love grow old ?

turn to the weekly publications, we have the Literary It is particularly necessary for us to cherish enlivening Gazette, so popular both in London and out of it, edited reflections like these, when we consider that the situation by Mr Jerdan, (whose brother edits the Kelso Maih)which we now hold makes us at this moment one of the we have the Atlas, the largest paper in England, edited most important atoms in creation. All the world knows by Mr Bell ; and we have the Spectator, edited by Mr that we are the most essential part and parcel of the ex- Rintoul.

As to the newspapers, they are too numerous isting literature of the country. There would be more to particularize ; but is there not Mr Stoddart of the a-do than ever there was about the lost Pleiad, were we Times, Mr Stewart of the Courier, and Mr Alexander of suddenly to disappear. Good God! only suppose that a the Morning Journalthree of the most influential of any Saturday morning came, and no LITERARY JOURNAL! published in the metropolis ? Many other Scotch editors What a breathless panic would spread over all the land ! are scattered over England, whilst we are not aware of The duties of public, and the comforts of domestic life, a single English editor in Scotland. In a most espewould instantly, and as if with one accord, be neglected;cial manner are we proud to know, that the LITERARY men would gather together in crowds, and there would Journal is edited by a Scotchman_ope who wears his be hurried questionings and slow replies, and doubt, and country “ in his heart's core, yen, in his heart of hearts," gloom, and madness, and crime, and infidelity, and de- and who thinks with William Tell, that he spair, and death! Never shall such a calamity happen whilst we have breath. Yet, let it not be supposed, that “ Who does not love his native land, loves nothing." though we have a becoming knowledge of our own importance, we are blind to the merits of our contemporaries. With the works of all of them—with the whole periodical row-minded as to be able to see no excellence beyond the

Let it not, however, be supposed, that we are so narliterature of Great Britain and Ireland—from the merest Tweed. penny brochure up to the largest and most costly publica- whole human race, Negroes, Cretins, “ pioneers, and all."

On the contrary, we feel attached towards the tion-we are intimately and continuously acquainted. All Editors, of all sorts and sizes, principles and denominathe lucubrations of our literary brethren we have deeply tions, we love with a most particular love. It is quite a studied, — we know their bearings and their course, their treat to see us skimming off the cream of the Magazines colours and their cargo, their tonnage and their strength; at the beginning of every month, -regaling ourselves with and, like one of the ships of a magnificent armada sailing something piquant and peppery in Blackwood, (yet withdown a great river, we bear them company as we float out that systematic and matter-of-course admiration, onward to the ocean of eternity. When we may reach which some of the newspapers are willing to sell to the that common goal, no mortal knows; but, in the mean- worthy bibliopole for the matter of a few advertisements, have engaged in the same career with ourselves, to know taking a peep at the beautiful creatures who smile is

the pages of La Belle Assemblée,--seeking and gaining is a delightful thing to see, in visible characters before you, information among the judicious contents of the Monthly the secret souls of other men ;-it is a delightful thing to Review,— laughing and feeling well pleased with Mr know that some great spirits are in the world along with Baylis and his Monthly Magazine,–becoming more se- us, whom we can understand, and who understand us,-. date over the Imperial Magazine, and the Morning Watch, who speculate deeply concerning human nature, and who -and, finally, recalling many of our military adventures strive with us to penetrate into the mysteries of mind, and and naval reminiscences (for we have seen some service to draw aside the veil of futurity. It may be that we laboth by land and sea) over the clever lucubrations of the bour in vain; but there is happiness in knowing that we Naval and Military Magazine. As to our " native Ca- do not labour alone or unsympathised with, and that, if ledonia,” we of course read most religiously its two Phi- we fail, we fail in company with which failure is more losophical Journals, already mentioned, and we intend honourable than success would be with others. When reading the third, which is to be a “ Journal of Natural one of those mighty minds, which we claim as the ornaand Geographical Science,” As soon as it appears,—we ment of our own age, and with which we proudly link read also its one Review,—we read its three Magazines ourselves, goes out, it is like the setting of a sun. Napo-Blackwood's, the New Scots, and the Elgin Magazine, leon, Shelley, Byron, Canning,—was it not spirit-stirring -and we read, without a single exception, all its news- and ennobling to live on the same earth with them ?-is papers. We are just as well acquainted with the most it not startling, melancholy, and humbling, to know that southern newspaper published in Scotland — which is they are now a portion of the common dust over which M“Diarmid's Dumfries Courier—and an excellent paper we tread ? For Heaven's sake, let us love one another it is—as we are with the most northern, which is the In- while we retain the faculties which God has given us ; terness Courier, edited by our able friend and contributor and let us, hand in hand, press on to the prize which our Mr Robert Carruthers. In like manner, from Berwick honourable ambition may aim at, without the indulgence to Ayr is with us a single step; and both the Berwick of any of those petty, but too common, feelings of envy, Advertiser and Mr M.Cormack's Ayr Advertiser have at jealousy, and hatred, which degrade and demoralize. this very moment been brought to us by our servant. For our own part, were we not of too philosophical a Looking at the Edinburgh newspapers, it is impossible to disposition to be easily elated, the commendations which, say whether we like most the bold energy and strong for the last two months, have been pouring in upon us thinking of the Mercury, as edited by Dr Browne, the from all quarters, and especially from the enthusiastic liadmirable judgment and gentlemanly taste of the Observer, terati of the Continent, might well have served to render as edited by Mr Sutherland, the careful selections and us somewhat too conscious of our own powers. We have sound taste of the Weekly Journal, as edited by Mr James long, however, laid it down as a rule, in conjunction with Ballantyne, the philosophical spirit and political acumen a distinguished moral philosopher of our acquaintance, to of the Scotsman, as edited by Messrs Ritchie and M‘Laren, receive all praise however extravagant—with calm dethe stanch principles and varied interest of the Evening light, and all attacks—however virulent with placid conPost, as edited by Messrs Crichton and Neilson, or tempt; there is, therefore, less chance of our being easily the strict impartiality and extensive information of the driven off our legs either by the one or the other. To Courant, as edited by Mr Buchanan. No less at home are show our readers that we do not exaggerate the favour in we with the Glasgow newspapers. Mr Macqueen has no which we are at present held, we shall amuse them with more constant reader of his Courier than we, nor Major a few extracts from some of the foreign periodicals in Hunter of his Herald, nor Mr Bennet of his Free Press, which our labours have been noticed.— The testimonials nor Mr Malcolm of his Scots Times, nor Mr Prentice of which Germany has sent forth are the more gratifying his Chronicle. If we thence go down the Clyde to Pais- that having, as yet, spoken but briefly of the literary exley, we have read the Paisley Advertiser ever since it was ertions of that nation, its praise cannot possibly have been first set a-going by Mr Kennedy, down to the present purchased by any undue complaisance on our part. It hour when it is in the hands of Mr Motherwell, and is was therefore with feelings of no ordinary satisfaction that very ably conducted by that gentleman. If we go still we read the following passage in that arch-sentimentalist, farther down the Clyde to Greenock, Mr Mennons and the Abend-Zeitung :-— “Wie es einem wohlthut unter dem the Greenock Advertiser are old friends of ours ;-the first ahnungsvollen Schatten des Buchenwaldes zu wandeln, poetry we ever printed happened to be in the Greenock wenn der Voll-Mond am Himmel hoch und hehr steht, Advertiser ; and this fact of itself is enough to make the sein silber-helles Licht über die sanften Wiesen hinbreipaper immortal. Then, suppose we cross by a steam-tend, und jedwedes Gefühl in einer süssen Schwärmerei boat to Helensburgh, and gallop to Stirling as fast as ever auflösend; so war uns zu Muthe, wie das erste Numero a carriage and four will carry us, are we not sure to land dieses vielgeliebten Journals vor uns emporstieg. Es sind at the Stirling Advertiser office—the Editor of which, Mr ja Elysische Felder voll süssen Minneglücks, und ächter Munro, we have known from our youth upwards. Nor Ritterschaft. Sic erheben uns aus einer Kalten dürren does a single week pass in which we omit to cast our eyes Welt in die lieblichen Regionen der Dichterei.” No less deover Mr Morrison's Perth Courier, and the Fife Herald lighted, though not a little surprised, were we to learn that of Mr Tullis.

Dundee boasts of two newspapers—the Professor Hegel of Berlin had informed his class—“ Alle Courier, edited by Mr Hill, and the Advertiser, edited by Zweifel über dem Urwesen, und dem unmittelbaren WisMr Saunders, and both of them we love much, especi- sen sind jetzt gehoben. Das Edinburgh Literary Journal ally their occasional criticisms upon ourselves, which are ist ein lebendiger Beweis dass Seyn und Nicht-Seyn sprightly and entertaining. Mr Chalmers' Aberdeen keinesweges einerlei sind." Like some distinguished criJournal shares our favour with Mr Booth's Aberdeen tics, who find in their favourite poet deep thoughts and Chronicle, and with the Observer ; and, as we invariably hidden beauties which he never dreamt of, we fear Proread them in our Slippers, the Editors may believe that fessor Hegel attributes to us a greater mastery over meWe entertain the most friendly feelings towards all of them. taphysical science than we can lay claim to. His opinions, In conclusion, though Mr Jerdan's Kelso Mail comes to however, seem to be those entertained by the students of us from the south, and Mr Grant's Elgin Courier and Jena, and there is something peculiarly energetic in the Mr Fraser's Inverness Journal, from the north, yet the expression of the resolve come to at their last public concontents of all the three mingle most agreeably in our clave :-“ Wer das Edinburgh Literary Journal nicht mind; and when the whole is slightly seasoned with a liest, steht ipso jure in Vers—s." But dearest to our few columns of Dr Macleod's Gaelic Messenger, we con- beart of all the compliments which Germany has paid us, sider that we complete, in a satisfactory manner, our heb- are the following friendly and playful hexameters by domadal course of newspaper reading.

Göthe, which we received from that illustrious man about It is a delightful thing to read and to be pleased ;—it ten days ago :

La

“ In deiner Vaterlands-Sprache heisst du, Geliebter ! die

U niversal be thy fame;
Glocke ;

R eviling wretches, cut your capers,
Und auf Franzöischem wirst du, richtig, der Schöne

Great and deathless is his name, genannt:

Happy man, to start such game! Wer, so wie du, mit der Schönheit, Feierlichkeit hat gepaaret,

Loud and long may people praise thee; Hat in der Laufbahn der Kunst, immer das Höchste I'm the humblest of your bards : erreicht."

Tennant, Hogg, and Wilson, raise thee Turning from Germany to France, we find that we

E v'n beyond all power of words. are much liked by les gens de lettres of Paris. We have

Rich and rare, and great and glorious, been unanimously elected a member of the “ Academie

A re thy shrewd remarks and notes ; Française," and also of the “ Athenæum of Arts." In

Rapture seize me, thou’rt victorious !

Yo! heave round ! our Thunderer floats. one of our letters from the celebrated M. Jouy, he is good enough to say," Tout ce qui part de ta plume est admirable. Il y a du brillant dans les pièces de prose et

I'll stand by you—fire a broadside ! de vers qu'on trouve toujours dans votre Journal Lit

Oh! man, fight your very best : teraire." "In the Revue Encyclopedique, a periodical of

Union Jack up mast high !-Odds, I'd

Roar like thunder from the west. great ability, we find the following editorial notice of the LITERARY JOURNAL: “ La litterature Angloise est

N ever strike, man-never waverriche en ouvrages de cette description ; mais pour les

At them at them !_braver !-braver ! pensées ingénieuses, pour la belle moralité, pour le style

Lo! they sink in ocean's breast ! élégant écrite au courant de la plume, et pour des connoissances fort étendues, il n'y a pas une feuille perio

Turning our eyes towards the west, or "stepping westdique ni à Paris ni à Londres, ou les belles lettres fleuris

ward," as Wordsworth would say, we find that Paisley sent à present, aussi bien distinguée que le Journal Lit contains several poets, who have addressed us in rhyme. teraire d'Edimbourg en Ecosse."—Nor have we been over

Our modesty forbids the publication of the compliments looked either in Italy or Spain. In a Florence periodical

they have paid to us personally; but, among them, we -Il Giornale di Firenze-we find ourselves thus spoken

find a song by Mr Thomas Dick, addressed to our friend of :-“ Questa opera ingegnosa è veramente ripiena di the Ettrick Shepherd, whom Mr Dick seems to consider cose rare e di cento mille gentilezze di tutta sorte.

the second most illustrious person in Scotland. Mr Dick litteratura Inglesa ha poche pubblicazione cosi utile e de

commences his letter very sensibly :-“Sir,— When I look siderabile.” In like manner, the editor of the Diario de at the array of glorious names upon your list of contriMadrid, in his review of the first volume of the LITERARY

butors, and reflect upon the great quantity of poetry you Journal, says :-“ La variedad agradable que se halla

continually receive, I dare hardly expect you will afford en este tomo, assi de assuntos como de estilos, le hace re

room in your Journal for the verses of a person alike commendable en sumo grado a los hombres mas eruditos

unknowing and unknown.' I have, however, entertainy curiosos."— Denmark, too, has done us justice. In that ed a slight hope, that if the enclosed song should be no widely-circulated paper, the “ Morgenbladet,” the able

otherwise meritorious, yet the subject of it may perhaps editor thus expresses himself :-“ Intet af Nutidens Vær- please. Should this induce you to give it a place, the ker, indaander os Fölelser af dýbere Agtelse og Beun

piece will exhibit the opinion held of the Ettrick Shepdring end den Edinburgh Literary Journal."- Nor less

herd by the humbler classes in a distant part of his naagreeable is the praise of the celebrated Elmquist, who

tive country, and the insertion of it will bestow more than edits the “ Aarhuus Stifts Tidende," and who says :

an obligation upon one who has read your lucubrations “ Critikken, Fortællingerne, Poesien i dette fortryllende

with much pleasure, and, I hope, some profit." We can Tidsskrivt, ere af allerhöyeste Rangv-Det er derfor in

find room for only one or two of the first stanzas of the tet Under, at Rygtet om det, gradvis udvider sig over song : alle Verdens Hjörner.”

THE SHEPHERD BARD.-A SONG. It would be easy to multiply these flattering testimonials almost ad infinitum, but we do not wish to be Here's a health to Jamie, O! accused of vanity, and are anxious now to turn from

Here's a health to Jamie, O! our own immediate concerns, in order to do justice I wadna gie our Shepherd Bard to a few of our innumerable correspondents. For the For a' the bards ye'd gie me, O! present, we shall not even allude to our foreign letters, though they would themselves fill a dozen Journals.

O' Greek and Roman bards they blaw, We prefer limiting ourselves to our oldest and best friends

Parnassus hill and Mantuan plain ; -the inhabitants of Scotland—who continue to write to

But there's a minstrel worth them a', us from every nook and corner of this happy country. And that's our Ettrick Shepherd Swain. Diligently do we read all their lucubrations; and, whether we print them or not, it is impossible that any of them can ever displease us. The fine, fresh glow of en

His hearty laugh, his harmless joke, thusiastic friendship which pervades the following effu

His sangs and “ kintra clatter," 0!

Aft bind us to the ingle neuk, sion, for instance, is enough to put any editor in goodhumour for a whole week. It comes to us from the Old

But aye we rise the better, O! Commodore, whom our readers may recollect we formerly introduced to their acquaintance as one of the bravest and

Sae sweet he tunes his simple reed, ablest seamen in his Majesty's service :

Beside his simmer shieling, 0 !

The heart maun e'en be waur than dead,
THE EDINBURGH LITERARY JOURNAL.

That canna share his feeling, O!
An Acrostic.

“ So much for Buckingham !" We shall still, however, E very joy attend thy Journal,

keep in the west, and take a look at the poets of Glasgow, Dearest friend of mine on earth;

- rising and promising part of the brotherhood. Sorne I mmortality o’erturn all

good stanzas, by the author of that strong and original N oisy rage and rancorous mirth ;

poem—“ The Dead Man's Moan," which we published Best of critics ! best of papers !

some time ago, present themselves first ;

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THE SPEECH OF THE BLASTED TREE.

And she did love her victim once,

The barb was in her bosom deep;
By William Mayne.

He heeded not her burning glance ;
The winter may fade, and the spring, array'd

What could she do but weep? In the fairest of light, appear ;

But soon it rankled that fierce dart, But what care I though the ice should lie

Her blighting tears soon ceased to fall; On the dark earth all the year

Each honey'd feeling of her heart What to me when the warmth of the heaven descends ?

Turn'd round its core to gall. My life is a winter that never ends.

She has betray'd him that the bier Yet I do not mourn, though my heart can burn

May join them ne'er again to part; With health and joy no more ;

She knows he cannot love her here, Nor long for the time of my springing "prime,

But Death may change the heart : When I was with bloom clad o'er,

He sees her, but he turns his head Ere Death thought fit to make me a cell,

In scorn against that faithless one; Where he and Decay, his child, might dwell.

And, writhing on his iron bed,

He heaves his latest groan.
Alone I stand, mid a fruitful band
Of trees, which enclose me round;

Now shatter'd is life's golden bowl,
But I hear their wail as the lusty gale

Death's shadow o'er the ruin falls ; Springs through with a careless bound

A heave- a quiver-and his soul For they dread that their leaves he may scatter and tear,- Hath pass'd the dungeon walls. I have no blossoms for which to fear.

That false one's wrath is now subdued,

Her dreams of hate have all departed; I am for ever as firm and calm

Revenge is o'er ; she stands at length
As though silence embraced the heaven;

Alone and broken-hearted.
Nor heed though the flash of the lightning dash
O'er my crest, so black and riven :

A moment, statue-like, and wild,
It knows too well where to strike and blast

Her stony look is thrown to heaven; It passes the tree it has shiver'd last.

A moment then misfortune's child

Bends o'er his bosom riven. 'Tis morning now, and along my brow

Her arm of snow she wildly raised, Glances the dawning day;

As if to point the path above; And it strives to wile my old front to smile

She shook not-murmur'd not-but gazed
Its desolate mien away;

On her first wreck of Love.
But I throw my shadow so'broad, and blight
The flowers which it glads with its smiles of light.

A moment with convulsive shriek,

Her heart seem'd bursting with its swen, The scant remains of the chill night rains

As round she glanced—but could not speakIn my worn hollow branches lie,

Then on his breast she fell. To strengthen and cheer the bird that drops near,

A maddening laugh—a thrilling startDown from the sultry sky;

One living scream-and life is past ;But woe to the bird which drinks of such dew,

Revenge a moment steel'd her heartMy heart's bitter poison will pierce it through.

Love triumph'd at the last. But seldom a bird 'neath my shade is heard,

Oh, woman is a living flower, Save when in some ght-dream of fear,

When opening to love's summer sighs ; It flutters quick through the shadows thick,

When wrong'd--the asp in battle hour And sleeps in my branches drear,

That, writhing, stings and dies. Till the dawning of morning appears in the skies,

Tender and jealous as the dove, When it starts with a warble of strange surprise.

Her heart may break-but seldom change;

What is more strong than woman's love, Seldom a bird 'neath my shade is heard,

More fierce than her revenge ? Too well they love the bowers

We now lay our hands upon a communication from “S. Where they gaily sing, while their downy wing

S." of Glasgow, by which it appears that he was some Skiffs the dew from the laughing flowers ;

what nettled at an alteration we made upon a poem we And what care I for their merry tone ?

got from him some months ago, and to which we gave a I for ever am silent and dark and lone.

place in our SLIPPERS, No. I.

“ S. S.” is of the genus There appeareth next in order Dugald Moore, the irritabile

, and we forgive him ; but he ought to have author of a book we introduced to the notice of our read- known that we improved his song. We shall print his es when it first came out, man who has metal in present poem, with which we are well pleased, exactly as him, and is no unworthy inhabitant of Dunlop Street, we have received it :

They say I am a lonely man,
LOVE'S VICTIM.

Recluse in walk and mood,
By Dugald Moore, Author of the African, a Tale, and Eschewing high society
other Poems.”

To sit in solitude;

But I have treasures hidden deep,
Stretch'd on the torturing wheel he lies,

That wake to me when worldlings sleep.
Life's agonies are almost past;
And for his country's cause he dies,

For I have friends to look upon,
Unconquer'd to the last.

And tongues that whisper sweet, Who has betray'd that freeborn chief ?

And sounds of joyance that can give Mark ye the maniac standing there,

A welcome when we meet, With brain too hot to cool at grief,

More than the glance that glads the ball, Too wild to feel despair?

Or flares amidst the festival.

Glasgow :

THE STUDENT.

They deem me poor, or lorn, or sad,

lished any thing in his life except in the Newcastle MaSlave of a dreamy brain,

gazine, but who has a good deal of genius about him, as Which burning ever, ever thirsts,

witness the following effusion :
As parched land for rain ;

A VERY AUNCIENT BALLAD.
But there are wells of holiest thought,
Where I can drink when they can not.

“ Whae's graff is that, thou bedral man,

Ye're houkin' sae wide an' deep?
I long have learn'd, and prize the lore,

Whae’s graff is that, thou bedral man,
That simplest things may be

An' whae's corpse is it to keep ?"
In solitude society —
In silence company ;

“O this is a graff for the howdie wife,
If in the wild a flower I see,

That's dead i' the burrow town;

An' we're houkin' sae deep, her corpse to keep It is no desert place to me.

Frae the clutch o’ Cadger Brown. Mr Brydson, already known to our readers, sent us two articles some weeks since ; but we suppose he was “ For he canna content him, Cadger Brown, beginning to get impatient, for the prose communication Wi' the gains o' a lawful trade ; has recently made its appearance elsewhere. There is no- But the fause auld knave maun come to the grave thing more common with us, than to see articles, which To harry the dead man's bed. had been previously offered to us and rejected, appearing with much pomp in other periodicals, whose editors are “ But our howdie wife was a gude auld wife, more easily satisfied. Mr Brydson, however, had not Weel liket by a' the town ; been rejected. His prose story cannot, of course, appear An' we're houkin' sae deep, her corpse to keep now in our pages, but his poem has much sweetness and Frae the clutch o' Cadger Brown." grace :

They buried her deep, the howdie wife,
THE PARTING-A SCHOOL-BOY REMEMBRANCE.

Full ten feet deep an' mair;
By Thomas Brydson.

They buried her deep, the howdie wife,
I tried to say and smile, “ Adieu !"

An' they cover'd her up wi' care.
But o'er my cheek the tear-drops came ;
The word that gave long years away

They watch'd her grave for three lang nights,
Died on my quiv'ring lip of fame :-

For three lang nights an' three ;
One moment and around me were

But it's dowie wark to walk i' the dark,
The friends beloved since infancy;

Beneath the kirkyard tree.
Another and alone I stood
Beneath the ev’ning sky.

Sae when it cam to the seventh night

To watch it, there were nane ;
The wild brook gush'd—the wild bird sang,

They gaed to the grave at the grey daylight,
Deep, deep among the banks of broom ;

But the howdie wife was gane.
And ev'ry breeze came wand'ring by
With melody and rich perfume :

Ane surgeon for a fresh auld wife
These once could charm, because my soul

Had offer'd saxteen pound ;
Could answer back with glee for glee ;

An' Cadger Brown maun get ae wife,
But I seem'd fetter'd now, and sigh'd

Gif ane wife was to be found.
To gaze upon the free.

He laid his poke an' his lantern down
'Tis long ago ;-and when I think

Upon ane auld thrugh-stane,
How sadden'd oft my heart hath been,

Where mony a grim death's-head was hewn,
Since in my voiceless woe I stood

An' mony a cross'd shank bane.
Alone amid that school-boy scene,
The same deep fount of feeling swells,

Wi' pick an' spade brief wark he made,

For he never eased his back,
Again burst forth the burning tears ;

Until he undid the coffin lid
But ah! no spot of earth can please
I mourn o'er future years.

An' had her in his sack.
We shall go down by one of the steam-boats from

O gurlily blew the cauld north wind, Glasgow to Greenock, and there we are sure of some- An' sough'd full fearfullie ; thing from a poet of no mean powers. Behold

And unholy things came on its wings

The wark o' sin to see.
YOUNG LOVE. A SONNET.
Who would not be a truant from the schools,

The corbie watch'd wi' a satisfied ee,
To learn in secret from those am'rous eyes ?
Who would not steal from dull discretion's rules,

An' gae a weel-pleased croak,

An' flauffer'd down from the dark yew tree With thee to share what plodding life denies ?

When the coffin lid was broke.
And cast grave looks aside for tender*sighs?,
And wasting thoughts for thrillings of delight ?

O there be bold and dauntless hearts,
And tedious questionings for love's replies ?

Who a dauntless band could lead, And morning's glare for this voluptuous night ?

An' fear never know for living foe,
The whispering leaves around us, and the mild,

Yet dare not meet the dead !
The dreamy lustre of yon moon's pale brow,
Never to musing fancy's lonely child

An' there be caitiff an' craven souls,
Imparted ecstasy like that which now

Who would shrink at an angry frown, They breathe o'er us, or wisdom so divine

Yet can carelessly tread o'er the dead man's bedAs that I study on those lips of thine!

An' such was Cadger Brown. “ How fleet is a glance of the mind." From Greenock

Cetera Desunt. we all at once transport ourselves to Innerleitben, where Amidst so much poetry, our readers will not be the we tind Mr Deans, a very modest poet, who never pub- worse of a few words in prose.

Would to Heaven that

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