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This is the last dark night

Of sorrow, and of pain!

The eyes fast closing on the light,

Shall never weep again!

And sighing and pain-and sin and sorrow, Find no to-morrow!

ECHO.

From an Icelandic Tale.

Upon the snowy mountain-tops,

The summer sun is brightly shining,
And round the ancient lava rocks,

The green, and crimson moss is twining;
Come to the misty waterfalls,

The silent brooks, and murmuring rills;
Come to the place where Echo calls-

Her dwelling is among the hills.
Sweet, sportive nymph! who lives unseen,
Mocking the wild-bird's melody;
In thy deep glens and pastures green,

Fain would I spend my hours with thee!
The breath of heaven, in balmy sighs,

Fanning the lonely flowerets sleeping ;-
The soft dews from the moonlight skies
Upon their folded bosoms weeping;
The misty dawn, in silver grey,-

The golden morn, in beamy brightness,-
Pouring the living streams of day

Upon the Yokul's snowy whiteness,―
These meet the eye,-and on the ear
Sweet songs of birds and murmuring water;
And then that airy harp, we hear,

Of thine, the desert's viewless daughter.
Nymph of the hills! thy wild harp take,
Echo the desert's voices over;

Then, oh! a sweeter music wake

And breathe the name of Leila's lover!

We return from the Shetland Islands to Stockbridge, Edinburgh, and are happy to say that that portion of the Modern Athens may lay claim to the merit of having given birth to the following simple and pretty ballad:

JEANIE GRAHAM.-A BALLAD.

The moonlight is sleeping on lofty Bonair,
The sheep's in the fauld, and the deer in his lair,
But I canna rest for my heart is frae hame,

And awa' ower the muirlands to young Jeanie Graham.

O, gin ye e'er saw this sweet may's hazel ee,
Wi' its glintings o' gladness an' glamoury,
Ye wad think that the levin had shot through your frame,
As ye drank the love glance o' the young Jeanie Graham.

Jeanie Graham has a voice like the lark i' the clud,
Jeanie Graham has a cheek like the bonnie rose-bud,
Jeanie Graham has a neck like the snaw on the hill,
An' a bosom that's purer an' lovelier still.

Like sunshine to simmer, or flowers to the bee,
Like rest to the wearie, or light to the ee,
Sae sweet to my saul is that dear lassie's name,
My kind-hearted fair-bosom'd blythe Jeanie Graham.

Jeanie Graham has a step like the roe on the steep,
Jeanie Graham has a heart that I gladly wad keep,
Jeanie Graham has a waist that I fondly wad span,
Gin the pauky young cutty wad ca' me gudeman.

Oh! would she look kindly, and would she agree
To share cloud an' sunshine o' fortune wi' me,
She wad lighten my heart-she wad gladden my hame,
And be queen o' them baith, my beloved Jeanie Graham!

W. W.

Looking round from our Editorial elevation upon the numerous principalities and powers which do us homage

and pay us tribute, we find that Inverness has laid the following offering at our feet-the production of an able and well-informed man :

A SKETCH AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.

In travelling through a fine country, or gazing upon a magnificent landscape, some particular spot generally challenges the observation of the spectator-some sunny sheltered nook, or glimpse of solitary beauty, or seques tered happiness-which lives in the memory “like the lost Pleiad seen no more below," when all the surrounding objects have been obscured or obliterated by time and distance. In rambling lately through part of Ross-shire, I was somewhat similarly impressed by a scene almost wholly destitute of external attractions, unless these may be said to consist in rudeness, silence, and solitude. A wilder spot can scarcely be imagined. Bleak heathery mountains, perpetually hooded by mist or snow—a rapid leafless burn, brawling among the channelled rocks, and emptying itself into a small lake or tarn, ungraced by tree or bush-one solitary hut in ruins, though inhabited -and a low-roofed decent church rising at a short distance among the wilds, compose the features of the sombre landscape. Yet even here are objects for feeling and imagination to expand in, for these bare hills and moors have their tale to tell. The single solitary hut was but lately one of eight habitations that stood upon a plot of greensward about half an acre-that, sheltered by the high hills, opened upon the lake. The cottagers jointly rented a farm in the vicinity, and bred a few sheep and cattle for the southern markets. They had also laboured hard to be able to purchase a boat, in which they occasionally ventured out to the herring-fishing in a neighbouring loch; and thus, from land and water, about forty souls, the denizens, young and old, of the little glen, reaped a scanty, precarious living. One of those accidents, however, to which mountainous regions are exposed, has only traces of cultivation. broken up the humble colony, and denuded the spot of its last, as the cottagers were returning from church, they One fine Sunday in August saw a sad and fearful spectacle: The burn, which in summer is scarcely perceptible, excepting by the track of green verdure that marks its course along the heath, had swollen to the height of a torrent, and was hurling destruction on all that impeded its progress. A waterspout had fallen among the higher hills and springs from which the burn is fed, and was rushing down to the loch with irresistible strength and velocity. A small stone bridge that spanned the crags above the green where the burn debouches, for some time offered resistance to the torrent, but at length was forced to yield. Trees, shrubs, straw, the debris of the flood, soon filled the arch, and prepared the downfall of the bridge. It fell, as many more elaborate structures have recently fallen under similar circumstances, and the passage of the stream was blocked up by the fast-descending mass of stones and rubbish. A new channel was thus dug out by the torrent-it ploughed its way through the little sylvan green, and out of the eight cottages one only was left standing. Beds, chairs, tables, a cradle or two, and even the well-worn leaves of the Gaelic Bible-all, in short, that served to furnish these simple dwellings, was speedily swept into the agitated waters of the loch. Happily no lives were lost. Most of the families, as I have stated, had been attending church, and the few persons who remained behind had clambered out of reach of the torrent. The walls of the ruined cottages still remain, and a fine old ash-tree or two wave over the spot. Not a vestige of the green is left. The whole was either washed off into the lake, or covered with stones and shingle.

that I lingered for some time beside it, and before pursuI was so touched by this silent, solitary scene of ruin, ing my journey, made a visit to the minister, whose manse is about a hundred yards distant. He received me with kindness, and informed me that collections had

been made in his own and the neighbouring churches for the benefit of the poor people, and that he was in hopes they would ultimately regain the means of livelihood in the same place. I was at a loss to conceive why a church had been built so recently by the Parliamentary Commissioners, in a spot which, for miles around, presented only to the eye one human habitation, but the worthy pastor said his congregation usually consisted of above a hundred and fifty persons. Among the hills and dells are scattered numerous huts, which, though scarcely distinguishable from the heath, send forth duly every Sabbath morn their inmates, young and old, to join in " public worship." Many of the cottars walk above twenty miles in going to and from their church, and are rarely deterred by rain or tempest from undertaking their pious task. The minister described his widely-scattered flock as strictly devout, and exemplary in the discharge of their respective duties. Their poverty and seclusion exempt them from the flowery snares of pleasure, and the storms and vicissitudes of the climate press more closely upon their minds their absolute dependence upon Him, who alone can still the raging of the tempest, and who measures out the waters in the hollow of his hand. R.

Leaving this secluded Highland glen to repose in the happiness of its smuggled whisky and peat reek, we travel to the Lowlands as fast as possible; and stopping at Dalkeith, we meet with a poet who might rank beside Hogg and Cunningham, could he always write ballads so full of nature and pathos as

THE BRENT-BRow'd lassie o' the hill.

"What maks ye sab an' greet sae sair, An' hing your head the live-lang day?

Fie, Jeanie! be yoursell again,

An' let the man-sworn reiver gae!

"Ye downa bide to do a turn; Your cockernony's aye ajee;

Your wheel stands idle i' the ha',That's no the gate things used to be.

"The neighbours, whispering, mark the change, An' ferlie that ye look sae ill; Sooth! nane wad tak ye now to be

The brent-brow'd lassie o' the hill!"

She's raised her snaw-white hands to heaven,
While burning tears fell dreeping doun;
She's pray'd fause love might be forgiven,
An' that the earth might hide her soon.

"An' how," said she to her sister Ann, Wha stood fast weeping by her side; "Oh! how can I be blithe, Annie,

Since I can ne'er be Jamie's bride?

"An' now that I'm forsaken, lass, Oh, what for should I busk me braw?

Or what for care though neighbours jeer, An' slight me ane an' a'?

"A cauld dead weight lies on my heart, Sair, sair, I lang now to be free!

Though the warld bask bright in God's fair light,
It's a dreary warld to me!"

"But, Jeanie, think on our mother's tears,
That fa' for you baith night an' day;
An' look on our poor auld father's cheek,
Whar sorrow, like a worm, doth prey!
"Yestreen, when he took the holy book,
An' bent his feeble knees in prayer,
Ye heard how, at the throne o' Grace,
He pour'd his heart out for ye there!"

As sunbeam on a wintry sky,

A light upon her wan face fell;
The thought of her auld parent's grief
Hath moved her like a wizard's spell.

An' slowly rose she from her bed,
An' dried her bruckit een sae sair;
Syne snooded she her silken locks,

An' said that she wad grieve nae mair.

But the sigh wad come, an' the tear wad start,
Alas! she couldna weel tell how!
For the grief at her heart it wadna part,

An' she spak' nae a word the haill day through!

They saw her wasting frae the earth,

Like a bonny snaw-wreath, silently;
Now she's aff to heaven, to dwell wi' her God,
In the blissfu' bowers o' eternity!

In a more vigorous and impassioned strain are the following verses, to which we willingly give a place:

FORGET ME NOT.

By John Mackay Wilson.
Mindest thou, when scarcely breathing,
As upon my bosom weeping,
And thy virgin vow bequeathing,
While the dusky gloaming creeping
Slowly, dimly, over, round us,
In a holy transport bound us,
(Still the sound my soul rejoices,)
Sweet as heaven's youngest voices,

Thou didst sigh-Forget me not.

Dost thou wander by the river

Wed to hallow'd recollection? Think of scenes now fled for ever! Living, glowing, retrospection! Big with rapture! rich in blessing! Holy-dear beyond expressing ! Then, as memory cons them over, Back recall thy absent lover, And forget me not!

Listen not to idle railing,

Nor defend when foes accuse me ;
I despise their low assailing,

Slander now can but amuse me.
If I've drain'd the cup of pleasure,
In each mixture, every measure ;
He who trembles to avow it,
Nature never form'd a poet!
Then forget me not.

Worn with care, and study lonely,

If I mix'd with mirth and gladness, Still I loved, and loved thee only!

Loved! till men have deem'd it madness. Then thy spirit hover'd o'er me, From the smiles of others hore me; Fancy heard thy raven tresses— Laughing eye that spoke caresses,

Say-Forget me not.

Forget thee!-No! thou dearest, never!
Through each change of joy or grieving,
Faithful once, and faithful ever,

Shalt thou find me. Let deceiving
With eternal blight assail me,
Should I use it should I fail me
To redeem the pledge I've given
Both in sight of men and heaven!
Till then-forget me not.

Like that skilful master of the lyre, Timotheus, we now pass at once to a different and more lively measure;

and they who relish genuine Scottish humour will read in London, for the purpose of presenting to his Excelthe following with no little satisfaction:

BESSY'S WOOING.

O guess ye wha's gane a-becking an' bowing,
Guess ye wha's gane a-billing an' cooing,
Guess ye wha's gane a-coaxing an' wooing,

To bonny young Bessy, the flower o' the glen?

Auld Sutor Rabbie, that trigs himsell brawly,
Auld Barber Wattie, that smirks aye sae waly,
Auld Elder Johnie, sae meek an' sae haly,

Hae a' gane a-wooing to Bess o' the glen.

Fat Deacon Sandy, the high council nabby,
Wee Tailor Davy, sae glibby an' gabby,
Dominie Joseph, sae threadbare an' shabby,

Hae a' gane a-wooing to Bess o' the glen.

Big Mason Andrew, sae heavily fisted,
Jock Gude-for-naething, wha three times has listed,
Lang Miller Geordie, wi' meal a' bedusted,

Hae a' gane a-wooing to Bess o' the glen.

Glee'd Cooper Cuddie, a' girded fu' tightly,
Red-nosed Sawyer Will, wi' his face shining brightly,
The tree-legged Pensioner, marching fu' lightly,
Hae a' gane a-wooing to Bess o' the glen.

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lency a friend of great merit, though unacquainted with any language but his own, Pray," enquired the latter, anxiously, "does the ambassador speak English?”—“Yes,” said Sir Ralph, with a serious smile, "much better than you do."

Finlay the Poet.-Not long before his death, Finlay the poet had a dream, which made a deep and lasting impression on his mind. He supposed himself journeying in a stage-coach between Edinburgh and Glasgow, and all the passengers, inside and out, guard and driver included, were persons whom he knew to be dead for many years. What kind of conversation passed among the phantoms, or whether they held any or not, my informant did not know-as Mr Finlay, having partly eased his mind by communicating the above particulars, always declined farther mention of the appaling scene.

A Minister of the Olden Time.-A minister of the olden time, happening to be upon his death-bed, fell suddenly into a swoon, and reviving after some time, he said to those around him, "A's safe noo, freens; I heard God himsell saying- Make way for my obedient servant, Mr John Scott.'"

The Surgeon and his Apprentice.-A surgeon's apprentice in Newcastle, having completed his engagement, went forth into the world to push his fortune. Several years elapsed, and he began to fade from the remembrance even of those whose hen-roosts and orchards he had pilfered, or whose cats he had hanged. At length, he returned to his native place in the character of a mountebank, and de

They're sighin' an' sobbin', an' vowin' an' swearin',
They're challengin', duellin', boxin' an' tearin',
While Bess, pawky jade, is aye smirkin' an' jeerin',-livered his introductory lecture right opposite to the shop
There ne'er was a gill-flirt like Bess o' the glen.

But a young Highland Drover came here wi' some cattle,
Got fou, an' spak Gaelic, got fierce, an' gae battle,
An' a' the haill pack did he lustily rattle;

O was nae that fun to young Bess o' the glen?

His weel-shapit shouthers caught Bessie's black eye-
Her head gae a stound, an' her heart gae a sigh-
An' now the bauld Drover's gien ower driving kye,

For troth he's baith laird o' young Bess an' the glen.
Variety is the sum and substance of enjoyment, and
one-half of the exquisite pleasure derived from the LITE
RARY JOURNAL is the infinite variety of its contents.
They who do not like "The Brent-brow'd Lassie o' the
Hill," or 66
Forget me not," or "Bessy's Wooing," will
in all probability be perfectly enchanted with

ANECDOTES COMMUNICATED BY THOMAS BRYDSON.

Anecdote of Dr Beattie.—Beattie, the author of the Minstrel, had such an antipathy to the fowl which he somewhere denominates "fell chanticleer," that the mere sight of it threw him into a state of agitation, which prevented him from attending to business or study for several hours afterwards. His students are said to have practised occasionally upon this weakness of his. When they wanted a holiday, they contrived that the Doctor should meet, in the very threshold of his class-room, his most dreaded foe. Home he went, like one under the influence of enchantment. There is a stanza in the Minstrel, in which he apostrophizes, and calls down anathemas upon the poor creature. He concludes with the following line,— "And ever in thy dreams the ruthless fox appear." James Boswell.-A gentleman who saw the celebrated James Boswell passing through Glasgow on his way to Edinburgh, just before he set out on his Corsican expedition, gives the following account of his dress :-A cocked hat-brown wig-coat ditto, made in the court fashion— red vest-corduroy small-clothes-and long militarylooking boots. He was on horseback, with his servant at a most aristocratic distance behind, and presented a fine specimen of the Scottish country gentleman of that day. Sir Ralph Abercrombie.-As Sir Ralph Abercrombie was proceeding to the residence of the Polish ambassador

of his old master, who came to the door and began to laugh heartily at what he saw and heard. "Observe that giggling fool," said the quondam apprentice to his audience, suiting the action to the word by pointing at the worthy doctor; "he does not know that, without one of my bottles, he will be dead before to-morrow." This alarming prognostication was followed up by such cogent reasons, that, strange to tell, the bottle was actually bought, and administered in terms of the label. Such is the power of

oratory.

My

A Family Connexion.-A gentleman of my acquaintance, while occupied in examining the sculptures over the burying place of a noble family, observed a person of the lower class sidling up to him with an air of much importance. friend thereupon, without seeming to withdraw his attention from the insignia of the illustrious dead, devoted part of it, nevertheless, in side glances, to the stranger, who, after a preliminary cough, and elevation of his body so far beyond its previous height, that one might have fancied it composed of India rubber, thus delivered himself: "I was connected, sir, with that family."-" Indeed!" said my friend, not a little surprised at the shabby appearance of this scion of nobility; "How were you connected with it ?"" In the shoemaker line, sir."

Now for two sonnets,-excellent little side dishes at a great feast:

ROSLIN CASTLE.-A SONNET.

Ruin still proudly soaring o'er the wood,
As the soul struggles through the frame's decay,
How many a ruthless siege thy walls have stood
Of howling hurricane and winter flood!
And still thou bravest them, though old and grey ;-
Even as a warrior stricken to the ground,
Who, as he falls, still sternly looks around.
How sweet to sit beneath thy ivied walls!
How sad to muse within thy roofless halls!
Ah! when the evening wind, with plaintive tone,
Murmurs its sad wild music in mine ear,

I think that some lone spirit wanders here,
And flitting restlessly from stone to stone,
Croons of the olden days with ceaseless moan.

Banks of the Esk.

Our other sonnet comes from Glasgow:

SONNET.

O that I had a life that could outrun

The steps of Time, and cheat the niggard King;
Outstare the weird looks of the age-worn sun,
The wrinkled moon, and all the stars that hing
In the broad welkin; mock the wither'd skies;
Outlive the burial of the Earth's old bones;
See Heaven's bright daughters shut their haggish eyes,
And curl the lip at Nature's dying groans!
If this be vain, then better far to part,
When Nature, lovely maid, is in her bloom,
And bursts the bud of beauty,-ere the heart
Is chill'd by hoary wedlock, or the gloom
Of dotage comes, to drink her vigour dry,
And strew her wither'd beauties in the tomb.
Glasgow.

H. M. G.

The author of the "Lament of the Wandering Jew," another Glasgow bard of considerable promise, may very boldly knock at the door of the Muses' Temple, if he can carry in his hand a bundle of such credentials as the following:

THE WEEPERS.

Who are they so wildly weeping ?—
Infants springing into life;
Childhood's early eyelids steeping,
Prophesying scenes of strife ;-
Orphans by their bedsides bended

To their Father in the sky ;-
Widows in the world unfriended,
Seeking for a home on high.

Who are they so wildly weeping ?—
Fathers over erring boys;—
Mothers by the cradle keeping,

When the future fills their eyes;—
Sisters o'er a brother's madness ;—
Brothers o'er a sister's shame ;—
Kind hearts over tales of sadness ;—
Proud ones for a noble name.

Who are they so wildly weeping?—
Exiles for their home again ;—
Greece, whose bondaged heart is leaping
Almost like to break her chain ;-
Afric's children wildly praying

'Gainst a tyrant's curst control;— Erin on her wild harp playing, Mourning for a shackled soul.

Who are they so wildly weeping ?—
Thousands over friends no more ;—
Yet why weep for friends now reaping
Joys upon a kinder shore?

Sad Earth! thou dost not endear me,-
O, to share Death's dreamless sleep!
O, to be where rest the weary,

And the wretched cease to weep!

T. B. J.

We are apt to be a little egotistical in our SLIPPERS, but at no other period. With a very safe conscience, therefore, we subjoin

THOUGHTS ON EGOTISM.

theless, egotism, though so generally decried, is yet very generally relished. It is, in fact, a common result of the changes and disappointments in the world; for these lead one to trust in nothing, and to take pleasure in nothing, but what is within one's own breast. Melancholy is its proper mood, and therefore a wit is seldom an egotist.

All the characters in Shakspeare speak like real men and women. He himself never shines throughout. All his dialogues seem to spring from the circumstances of the moment. In most of our other dramas, we find the author himself bearing a conspicuous part, and hear him prompting. There is, however, every variety of egotism throughout Shakspeare's plays; for, as the characters come upon us like actual beings, we take their egotism, instead of searching for the author's. Who does not love the egotism of Jacques?-of him who colours the air with the sombre light of his own thoughts-who shades the forest of Ardenne with the gloom of his own mind? It is his philosophical egotism which lifts him above every other character in the play. He thinks alone-reads alone. Life is to him a world of reflection, and his own feelings and ideas elevate him above the creatures breathing around. He laughs in the very face of mankind! Hamlet is another Jacques; but his life lies at court, not in the woods. His great charm is his proneness to selfish thoughtfulness. The finest parts of Othello are where he speaks of his fiery love of battle; or his own personal appearance. His farewell, for example, to the pride, pomp, and circumstance of war, is a genuine burst of selfish sorrow. Desdemona loves him for his ardent recital of his own feelings and dangers, that is, for his egotism. Brutus is sternly egotistical. We are more involved in the struggles of his cold philosophy, than in the struggle of Rome itself. Macbeth becomes doubly interesting after the murder, because crime drives him more within himself. He grows distrustful of all-the light is reproachful to him-society is a spy upon himhis palace is the hall of suspicion-he is a moody philosopher, a gloomy abstract, amidst scenes of pomp and revelry -a plaything in the hands of superstition.

Milton was not much of an egotist. His classical knowledge gave him a passionate love for the beautiful and romantic, and the veil which hangs over bis writings hides him from common sight. But "Lycidas," which is one of the most pathetic pieces we can read, breathes the elegant sorrow of a scholar and young enthusiast. It is a long and uninterrupted piece of delightful egotism, and serves to show the feeling, learning, refinement, and pleasures of the poet.-Pope is more lively in his satires than in any other parts of his poetry, because they come directly from the heart, and tell tales of himself.-Dr Johnson was a thorough egotist; his asperities, his downright assertions, his weighty reasonings, his charitable kindnesses, were all egotistical.-Lord Byron is another egotist, and became popular by his egotism. The public would not have read "Childe Harold," the "Corsair," or the "Giaour," if they had been forbidden to speculate on the resemblance between the fictitious characters, and the real character of the author.

Egotism is, therefore, a powerful instrument in the hands of a man of genius, but it is only a man of strong mental powers who knows how to turn it to good ac

count.

E. Linton.

Glasgow again "rushes red on our sight," and a very

THE SEA-FIGHT.

The pirate leant upon a gun,

In judging the comparative merits of authors, whether do we most admire him who can delight us with a sub-clever fellow there produces ject in which he himself makes little or no appearance, or him who, by simply versifying his own troubles and passions, acquires his popularity? Most certainly the former. His imagination must be acute and rare, to effect his purpose. He must accommodate himself to the subject; and it is only in proportion to the genuineness, strength, and clearness of the original feeling, that a vivid and durable impression can be produced on the mind of others. Never

And mark'd the war-ship bearing on;
Around, like bronzed statues, drew
The fiercest of that outlaw'd crew:
Bold, ruthless men, from every clime,
A dark society of crime.

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In that stern gathering were heard ;
They knew that flight and strife were vain,
With yonder brother of the main :
But they swore to stand together yet,
Till the last plank beneath them split.

It was a summer night-the moon
Sail'd through the glorious skies of June;
The wind had sigh'd itself to rest
On the old ocean's icy breast:

It was too calm. Oh! for the gush
Of tempests, and the black wave's rush!

The vessels met,-the shot and shell
In red and random ruin fell;

The shout-the groan-the mutter'd prayer-
The blasphemy of fierce despair-

The splintering yards, and shattering ship,
Woke the wild echoes of the deep.

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Let us go back once more to the hours of our boyhood, and contrast the mightier projects of the present day with the varying hopes and fears which agitated our bosom then. They are hours which every one delights to recall, and the associations connected with which, the annexed little sketch may perhaps awaken :

THE TRUANT.-A REMINISCENCE OF SCHOOL DAYS.
"For he hath been a truant in the law."
Henry VI.

The roll had just been called over in the school at H, when it was discovered that William Gordon, an incorrigible truant, had, for the twentieth time, taken leave of absence, and absconded from his daily labours. William was a boy of talent, and when it suited him, his studies gave him little or no trouble, having a ready conception, and a retentive memory; but his ruling foible, like some of the great ones of the present day, was absenteeism; he was, moreover, rather passionate, and far from being a favourite with his schoolfellows. The master, a severe man, but an excellent teacher, as was his wont on such occasions, ordered out six chosen ones to go in search of the deserter. I was one of the happy number; we received our instructions, and away we went. It was on a morning in the lovely month of June, with a clear sunshine, and almost cloudless sky, excepting a few fleecy clouds flying before the light breeze, which served to correct, in the most agreeable manner, the in

tense heat of the noonday sun. We bounded through the suburbs of our little town, and soon found ourselves wandering down a country road of great beauty, finely wooded on either side, with mossy banks, and a clear stream rippling along under the shade of the rich foliage. We thought of the hum of voices which we had left behind, the black sliding board, Playfair's Euclid, and Hutton's Mathematics, and a loud shout evinced the pleasure with which we left them all ;-not that we were careless, however, far from it,—we had an honourable desire of emulation within us, and more than one of the party had carried off medals, books, and penknives, as evidence of not having been behind when the annual day of trial and tribulation came. But the glorious prospect of a ramble for the best part of the day through a beautiful country, had pleasures for us far beyond what either Euclid or Hutton could ever afford. On we went, "over bank and over brae," in search of the fellow whom we had the extreme pleasure of being sent after, clearing hedges, ditches, dykes, and burns, when they happened to come in our way, which was seldom the case, as we generally made that kind of work to ourselves. On we sallied, in the plenitude of health and happiness, perfectly careless about meeting with the object of our search, yet resolute to take him vi et armis, if he should come across our path. The beauty of the day heightened our natural flow of spirits, and in the words of the laughter-loving Hood, we strode joyfully along,

"Turning on earth, All things to mirth,

As boyhood only can."

About two hours after first setting out, our advanced guard of three came up with the culprit, walking quietly along in the direction of his father's farm-steading, and busily engaged in reading Robinson Crusoe, that spiritstirring narrative, so dear to the memory of boyhood, the romance of which has lately been almost rendered null and void, by one John Howell's Life of one Alexander Selkirk, about whom we don't care the value of a pin, and of whom every true lover of Robinson Crusoe and his man Friday would wish to hear and know nothing. William first turned his eyes to the farm, about half a mile distant, and made up his mind that running for it would not do, as he knew, to his oft-tried experience, that we were all pretty fleet of foot; he therefore faced about, and enquired (seemingly quite ignorant of our mission) what we wanted with him; and before we could return an answer to his question, he drew a clasp-knife from his pocket, and swore loudly and fiercely, that he would stab the very first of us who should presume to lay hands on made their appearance, debouching, as military men would say, from under a high thorn hedge. One of them, Charles by name, a big, strong-boned fellow, went up and told the deserter, now trembling with fear and rage, that it was of no use to look big, but just to let himself be escorted to school in a regular manner, without any affray. At this moment, William sprang at Charles, and aimed a stroke with the knife at his breast; happily it struck a large metal button, and glancing aside, without doing much mischief, the force of the mistaken blow brought Master William headlong to the ground. We disarmed him instanter, and, fastening the runaway by the wrist to Charles, commenced our march homewards, narrowly escaping a chance of rescue from some young boors, who did not relish the idea of seeing the "Maister's Son" lugged along like a thief. We repelled the attack, however, by a hearty bicker, and, resuming our walk, got to the village without farther interruption.

him! Immediately after this bravado, our rear-guard

The school was just breaking up, and the beautiful sentence, "Take your hats," had just been uttered, when we entered with the truant. "Back to your seats!" roared the pedagogue ;-the deserted forms were filled in a moment, and all eyes were turned on us and our charge as

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