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, The green, and crimson moss is twining; The silent brooks, and murmuring rills; Her dwelling is among the hills. Fain would I spend my hours with thee! Fanning the lonely flowerets sleeping ;- The golden morn, in beamy brightness,- Upon the Yokul's snowy whiteness,― Of thine, the desert's viewless daughter. 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, And awa' ower the muirlands to young Jeanie Graham. O, gin ye e'er saw this sweet may's hazel ee, Jeanie Graham has a voice like the lark i' the clud, Like sunshine to simmer, or flowers to the bee, Jeanie Graham has a step like the roe on the steep, Oh! would she look kindly, and would she agree 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, "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, "But, Jeanie, think on our mother's tears, As sunbeam on a wintry sky, A light upon her wan face fell; An' slowly rose she from her bed, An' said that she wad grieve nae mair. But the sigh wad come, an' the tear wad start, An' she spak' nae a word the haill day through! They saw her wasting frae the earth, Like a bonny snaw-wreath, silently; 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. 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 ; Slander now can but amuse me. 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! Shalt thou find me. Let deceiving 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, To bonny young Bessy, the flower o' the glen? Auld Sutor Rabbie, that trigs himsell brawly, Hae a' gane a-wooing to Bess o' the glen. Fat Deacon Sandy, the high council nabby, Hae a' gane a-wooing to Bess o' the glen. Big Mason Andrew, sae heavily fisted, Hae a' gane a-wooing to Bess o' the glen. Glee'd Cooper Cuddie, a' girded fu' tightly, 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', But a young Highland Drover came here wi' some cattle, O was nae that fun to young Bess o' the glen? His weel-shapit shouthers caught Bessie's black eye- For troth he's baith laird o' young Bess an' the glen. 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, I think that some lone spirit wanders here, 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; 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 ?— To their Father in the sky ;- Who are they so wildly weeping ?— When the future fills their eyes;— Who are they so wildly weeping?— 'Gainst a tyrant's curst control;— Erin on her wild harp playing, Mourning for a shackled soul. Who are they so wildly weeping ?— Sad Earth! thou dost not endear me,- 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; In that stern gathering were heard ; It was a summer night-the moon It was too calm. Oh! for the gush The vessels met,-the shot and shell The shout-the groan-the mutter'd prayer- The splintering yards, and shattering ship, 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. 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 |