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although the room was small and rather crowded, she soon fixed on Gilbert Burns, and laying her hand on his arm, and looking in his face, said, 'Is this no him?' She was rather proud of having made the discovery so soon; and when Mr Gray asked by what features she knew him, she replied, She would soon show him that;' and taking a key out of a private drawer, she opened an upper leaf of a clothes-press; from that she took a little box, and from that she took a portrait of Burns, carefully rolled up in silver paper. It was kit-kat size, halflength, with buckskin breeches, blue coat, and broad highcrowned hat. Mr Gray at first sight exclaimed, Glorious! Glorious! Burns every inch! Every feature! Mrs Taylor, that is quite a treasure.' Mr Ainslie made some remarks about the mouth. Mr Gilbert Burns said, It is particularly like Robert in the form and air; with regard to venial faults, I care not.' These were his first words, or very near them. He looked long and fondly at it, and listened with earnest attention to Mrs Taylor's relation of its execution. She said, Mr Burns and Peter had been in a large party over night, and that Burns, of his own accord, had attached himself very much to her husband, for he never wantit the good heart and the good humour, poor fellow!' That on parting, Peter invited the Poet to breakfast the next day. He came, and that very day the portrait was begun after breakfast; Burns having sat an hour to the artist. He came a second day to breakfast, and sat an hour; and a third day, which being the last day Burns had to spare, he had to sit rather long, and Mr Taylor caused her (Mrs Taylor) to come in, and chat with the Poet.' She related


to Mr Gilbert Burns a number of his brother's sayings at these interviews, but they were about people I did not know, and have forgot them. They were of no avail.

"All that I can say of the portrait is, that though I thought it hardly so finished a picture as Nasmyth's, I could see a family likeness in it which I could not discern in the other. I had been accustomed to see old Mrs Burns in Closeburn church, every Sabbath-day, for years, also a sister of the Bard's, who was married there, and Gilbert Burns was present. Taylor's picture had a family likeness to them all. To the youngest sister it had a particular likeness. It is as like one of Gilbert Burns's sons, and very like Gilbert himself in the upper part of the face. I took a long and scrutinizing look of Gilbert and the picture. It is curious that I could not help associating Wordsworth in the family likeness with the two brothers. Gilbert was very like him, fully as like as to Robert; but, to use a bad Iricism, had the one been his father, and the other his mother, he would have been deemed very like them both. The impression of the whole party was, in a general sense, that Mr Taylor's picture was a free, bold, and striking likeness of Burns. Mrs Taylor would never let it out of her own hand, but she let us look at it as long as we liked, and Mr Gilbert Burns testified himself particularly gratified. As I state nothing but simple facts, you are at liberty to give publicity to any part of this letter you choose; and I remain, dear sirs, yours most truly, "JAMES HOGG."


The other communication we have received is from the pen of Mr Robert Carruthers, the able editor of the Inverness Courier, whose information, upon a variety of literary subjects, is at once accurate and extensive:

TO THE EDITOR OF THE EDINBURGH LITERARY JOURNAL. "Mr Editor,-The article in your last Number, on the Unpublished Remains of Burns, will be read with deep interest both at home and abroad-on the banks of the Ganges and Mississippi, as well as on the Tweed and the Tay. The pious care which has of late years been extended to the fame of the poet, speaks well for the national taste and feeling, and atones, in some measure, for that cruel and heartless conduct which marked the aris

tocracy of a former generation. Mr Lockhart's Life is certainly a valuable addition to our literature. It is written in an excellent tone and temper, and, added to its stores of information, with such an honest desire to do justice to the Poet, and to set down nought in malice, that we can scarcely wonder at its rising into such general popularity. The ad litions made to his third edition will extend the reputation of the work, and I have no doubt but he will speedily be called upon for a fourth. 'Let them stretch to the crack of doom !'-accompanying the noble labours of Currie, and those strains which will survive,

While rivers row and woods are green.'

"As I anticipate your hearty' Amen' to this prayer, let us pass, for a few brief moments, to humbler matters. Mr Lockhart has chronicled the Poet's love of scribbling on glass with a diamond, a fatal present from a lady. It cannot be said that Burns trusted his fame to the brittle tenure of glass, but he was certainly fond of extending it in this way. I well remember, among the dies notandi of former years, having lingered by the Poet's house at Ellisland, tracing these wayward scrawls on a window that faces the river. His own and wife's initials are written in many a fond and fanciful shape, and the following line occupies a conspicuous place on one of the panes :

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'Mauchline, 23d June, 1788. 'This letter, my dear sir, is only a business scrap. Mr Miers, profile painter in your town, has executed a profile of Dr Blacklock for me: do me the favour to call for it, and sit to him yourself for me, which put in the same size as the Doctor's. The amount of both profiles will be fifteen shillings, which I have given to James Connel, our Mauchline carrier, to pay you when you give him the parcel. You must not, my friend, refuse to sit. The time is short: when I sat to Mr Miers, I am sure he did not exceed two minutes. I propose hanging Lord Glencairn, the Doctor, and you, in trio, over my new chimney-piece that is to be! Adieu.

ROBT. BURNS.* To Mr Robt. Ainslie, at Mr Mitchelson's, Carrubber's Close, Edinburgh.'


"To Mr Lockhart's Anecdotes,' perhaps you will think the following worthy of being added. It is perfectly unexceptionable on the score of morals:-Burns, it will be recollected, was struck with the first burst of the French Revolution, and, in common with many of our cautious yet ardent countrymen, regarded it as the com

The profile of himself, alluded to in the above letter by Burns, must have been one of those traced by a machine, and could be of little or no value. We have seen a miniature painting of Burns, which belonged to Mrs Dunlop of Dunlop, but it is indifferently executed, and bears no character. Ed. Lit. Jour.

mencement of a new era of universal freedom and happi-haps, into evil practices, and sharply assailed by evil ness. The conduct of the Gallic regenerators, however, tongues, had not weaned from him the attachment of his speedily convinced the Poet of his mistake, and as an evi- most fond and faithful friends. The letters of Mrs Dundence of his returning loyalty, he enrolled himself a mem-lop and Mrs Riddell, with those of numerous other corber of a corps of volunteers then raised in Dumfries. respondents at this period, remain lasting monuments to Previous to one of the public meetings of this body-a his honour; and I could name some high-born ladies, of regular field-day, which was to terminate in a grand din- irreproachable purity of character, who, on the day after ner-it was hinted to the Bard, that something would be his interment, moistened with their tears the premature expected from him in the shape of a song or speech-some grave of a man, whose memory will always be dear to his glowing tribute in honour of the patriotic cause that had country.-I am, Mr Editor, your most obedient serlinked them together, and eke in honour of the martial vant, "ROBERT CARRUTHERS." glory of old Scotland. The Poet said nothing, but as silence gives consent, it was generally expected that he would shore them on the occasion of the approaching festival with another lyric, or energetic oration. The day at length arrived; dinner came and passed, and the usual loyal toasts were drank with all the honours. Now came the Poet's turn; every eye was fixed upon him, and, slowly lifting his glass, he stood up and looked around him with an arch, indescribable expression of countenance. "Gentlemen,' said he, 'may we never see the French, nor the French see us.' The toast fell like a 'wet blanket,' as Moore says, on the hopes of the "Volunteers. a',' they muttered one to another, dropping down to their seats to use the words of my informant, who was present-like so many old wives at a field preaching ;' Is that the grand speech or fine poem that we were to have from him?-but we could hae expected nae better! Not a few, however, 'raxed their jaws,' as the Ettrick Shep-ble. herd says, at the homely truth and humour of the Poet's sentiment, heightened by the first rueful aspect of the company; and long after, in his jovial moments, Burns used to delight in telling how he had cheated the Volunteers of Dumfries.

Is that



“Mr Lockhart has mentioned the Poet's republican sentiments, and his refusal to drink the health of William Pitt' in a company, wishing to substitute for it the health of George Washington.' I have heard, many years ago, the anecdote related by a gentleman who was present. But Burns was always willing to do justice to the merits of Pitt. He used to say, that the Consolidation of the Customs, and other financial measures of that great man, could only be perfected by the son of Chatham, of whom they were worthy. At this period, the Poet was in the habit of frequenting the house of a ne ar relation of mine, | in which a weekly musical club was held. The bold Jacobin songs of France were then newly imported, and Burns was fond of hearing sentiments which he has embodied in his glorious lyric of For a' that, and a' that.' On these occasions, he used to rise and lock the door, remarking, that such things were not suited to vulgar ears.' I have reason to believe, that a number of notes and letters from Burns, of a political nature, are still preserved in the escritoires of the surviving members of this club, who, as the Poet would undoubtedly have done, have long since renounced the dangerous and delusive sentiments which lent a halo to the early efforts of the French reformers.


"The almost unexampled success of Burns called forth a host of imitators, who sought to earn popularity by writing in the Scottish language. One day, as the Poet was sitting at his desk, he heard a well-known balladcrier, familiar to all Dumfriesians, named Andrew Bishop, proclaiming an excellent new poem by Burns, called Watty and Meg.' The Bard, who highly admired the poem, lifted the sash of his window, and, in his rough and racy Scotch, called out, That's a d-d lee, Andrew-but gang on. The reader may not think much of this characteristic trait, but had he heard it, as I did, from the lips of the Poet's widow, in the snug little parlour wherein he composed those matchless lyrics which will endure while Scottish literature exists, he could not refuse it the tribute of a genial smile.

"In conclusion, I may mention, that all the aberrations of the Bard in his latter days, though, fallen, per



I AM decidedly against pluralities, and for this single reason, that they divert the attention from that unity of purpose and effect which is the very soul of exertion. A pluralist may struggle a while with his double duties, but the one will ever cramp the other. He will feel like the Siamese boys, now exhibiting in London. There will, in spite of the very best will and arrangement, be occasionally a pulling in opposite directions. Could the one duty be made subservient and subordinate to the other could the minor be converted into the aspect of an amusement or recreation, with a reference to the majorthen, indeed, things were altered ; but this is impractica The moment I consider an office as a duty, I cease to consider it as a source of amusement. A boy will ride all day on his father's gate, but impose this exercise as a task, and he is off directly. Fishing is a bewitching amusement, but they who fish for profit, have ceased to enjoy it as such. That there should be clerical recrea tions, is not only desirable, but indispensable; but that sacred and solemn duties should be made to wear this aspect, is inadmissible. It is a manifest satire upon the wisdom of our ancestors, and serves to lessen our regard for the most binding motives of action. Away, the, with pluralities from our church! The bone has been gnawed and crushed, till the children's teeth have been set on edge. Fling it to the Treasury, and let the rebound be heard through St Stephens !

But though I am against pluralities, I am decidedly favourable to clerical recreations; such recreations, however, as preserve the proper and distinctive character. I do not, assuredly, include under this class the editing of newspapers, and other periodicals. Neither do I tolerate clerical boarding-houses. These avocations are manifestly duties, to the performance of which time, talents, and ex ertion are compelled to be subservient. "Non mihi res sed me rebus submittere conor," says the clerical editor, or boarding-school master; and the people, the periodical, or the pupils, must suffer. But the whole range of literature is legitimately open to the parson. In this field he may toss and tumble about under sunshine, with all the freedom and frolic of an exulting and rejoicing nature. Amidst this range of diversified enjoyment, his imagination, feelings, judgment, memory, may disport, till the public begin to look over the wall, and participate in his happiness. The press is to him a "BARREL ORGAN," upon which he can occasionally play a divertisement-whenever, and only whenever, the humour shall seize him. Upon this "organ," not yet prohibited in our church, many clergymen have played, and are at this hour playing, most delightfully.

There, for example, is Dr George Cook, lately of Law. rencekirk, who has made the instrument, at leisure hours, respond beautifully to the tune of "Auld Langsyne;" Mr Sommerville, of Currie, has given us "Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns" in a most moving style;— Scott, of Corstorphine, has played us "Wha was aince like Willie Gairlace;" and the minister of West-Calder has sung us "High Germanie;"-Hamilton Paul has made the keys ring to "Rob the Ranter," whilst the

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minister of Dunsyre has rumbled a few notes to the tune of "A bonnie lass to a Friar came;"-Wright, of Borthwick, has presented us with "A Morning and Evening Sacrifice," whose hallowed aspirations are still in the ears of the nation, whilst Brown, of Eskdalemuir, has played a masterly overture, entitled "Judah;"-Duncan, of Dumfries, has made the cottar's fireside wondrous fain, and Wightman, of Kirkmahoe, has danced and cracked his thumbs merrily to the music;-Dr Mackenzie, of Portpatrick, has made the rocks around him respond to "Sin and Oceana," a powerful medley, whilst Welsh, of Glasgow, has given us "Brown's" requiem in proper emphasis;-M'Lellan, of Relton, has struck the "note of liberty," which has been echoed up Glen Ken, and has died away at its old residence, the Manse of Kells;Sandsburough, of Stevenson, has made the rocks of Arran and Goatfell vocal, whilst M'Leod, of Campsie, has taught the instrument to discourse beautiful Gaelic;Chalmers has "organized the organ into a new state of organization," whilst music oozed from every pore; and Andrew Thomson has rung it successfully in tones and cadences of strength and terror;-Sievewright, of Markinch, has died away in a most dying-dying fall, whilst Fleming, of Flisk, has converted it into an ark, for all manner of beasts, birds, and reptiles. And thus the organ has ended in a deray of organic matter, powers, and modulation.

But, seriously, such literary recreation as has been referred to, instead of impeding the performance of duty, forwards it, and coming not at stated and fixed intervals, but occasionally, and ad libitum, serves to keep alive the mental powers, as well as to improve the moral perceptions.

Man, however and, after all, a Minister is but a man --is not entirely made up of mind. There is an "aliquid terrænæ fæcis" in his composition-" certamen est animo, cum gravi carne," and to prolong this contest, bodily exercise is absolutely requisite. Away with cards, drafts, backgammon, and chess! The first are unclerical, the second and last, downright stupefaction, whilst backgammon is perfect derangement. Any man who can sit down after dinner, and with his ears open, inflict upon another man the misery of backgammon, would, if occasion served, be guilty of murder,—he would trail the body over harrows of iron, as well as the soul over such tearing jets of sound. So much for sedentary recreations, which, with a parson, should all be of a literary, or professional, or family character. The Minister in his family, and with his books and parishioners, will never be in need of sedentary amusement. But he must have exercise. Let him fish! He is two, three, five miles from a stream ;-no matter-let him ride, or trot on foot, --still he ought to fish. There is, in fact, no other exercise so every-way suiting his character and circumstances. Shooting we have on a former occasion dismissed. Quoits are vulgar. Golf is genteel, but expensive;—and what, in the name of health and repaired spirits, is left to the "honest man," but fishing? So let him fish, and incessantly; the stream ever runs;

prolific of sedges, one is ever in danger of being stung by wasps, or bewildered amidst a labyrinth of vegetation. Yet, if you choose to practise with the natural fly, you may kill and kill till the strap cuts your shoulder. September, October, and November, with floods, sea-trout, hirsling, and all manner of migrating shoals!—who would mind a blast or a wetting, when the whole streams are peopled, when, a few days later, and fishing becomes murder of the most forbidding and unseemly character ? What then, say you, is to be done during frost?" Curl! play at the channel-stane,”—engage in bonspiels,—eat beef and greens,—and enjoy the society of the more respectable proportion of your parishioners. What exercise of which the season admits can be more healthy than this? —a clear blue sky overhead,-a game to interest the gods, -the excitement of emulation in constant and increasing activity,—and then, when evening comes-But this is a theme too much for feeble prose ;—

"Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis ævum;"

and so long as it runs it is fishable. True, the Baltic freezes occasionally, and so do our mountain streams, about the month of February in particular; and then for a few days there is poor fishing: but, with the excaption stated, there is sport, and admirable sport, for the Minister all the year round. No month can match March for its deep holes and dark two-pounders. True, they do not rise often; but then their single bite is fate. April is all over fishable, from the squally blast to the dark-lowering cloudling. May is the Queen of Monthsthe Triton of the minnows-enthroned in the midst of the finny tribes, from the par to the red trout. If you do not kill in May, why, then, wait till August; for I cannot say much for June or July; these are so hot and

The sun has set in azure sky,
And home the happy curlers hie;
Their brooms are safely stowed away,
Preserved for use some other day.
The ground is flint, the air is keen,
And every puff of breath is seen ;
And ever, as along they string,
Their tongues with curling clatter ring.

To "beef and greens"-the curlers' feast---
Sit down the farmer, laird, and priest.
Our jaws in silence move a while-
The beef is plied in proper style—
Till first a dram, and then a jug
Of porter, makes the matter snug-
Well-bottled porter, air'd and meek,
All reaming from the chimney cheek.

Then comes the bowl-an heir-loom old-
Which three good quarts of punch can hold.
We hate your tumblers, brittle ware,
They want the jolly, social air;
And jugs are our abhorrence too,
They hide the beverage from the view.
The water smokes, the whisky-bottle
Emits his soul through gurgling throttle;
Amidst the board he takes his place-
Vast MODERATOR of his race!

The spoon is motioned knowingly-
The punch is ready-taste and try-
The smack is o'er-the sentence pass'd-
We've "hit the very thing" at last.
And now around the fire we gather-
A fire looks well in frosty weather;
Our half-moon table suits our numbers,
And neither wife nor care encumbers.

Lolling at ease, with haunch on high, We haflins sit, and haflins lie; Our eyes all beaming full of gleeThe happiest of the happy we. The shot is played-the port is run, The winner hit-the end is won. "Claudite jam rivos pueri, sat prata biberunt."

So, so, my pretty Pegasus, you are all over of a lather! There, now, compose yourself, and walk decently into your stall, recollecting that, after all your vapouring, you are only the "Minister's yad." T. G.


THEY who think Knowles no poet, and Macready no actor, should go to see Virginius and William Tell; and if they remain of the same opinion still, they are greater dolts than we took them for. We look upon Knowles, and we care not who knows our opinion, as by far the

Miss Jarman continues to maintain her place in our estimation. Her performance of Virginia is excellent; it is touching, simple, and unaffected. Her Belvidera we did not like quite so much. We shall take an early opportu nity of offering Miss Jarman a few hints, to which she may perhaps think it worth while to listen.-The manager has had the liberality to re-engage Miss Philips, who was here with Braham. She is a highly respectable addition to the operatic strength of the company. Old Cerberus.

best dramatic writer living; and we look upon Macready | a thousand times rather strain after effect, till his strainas very nearly the best tragic actor. The chief fault ing becomes unnatural, than sink into tame blamelesswhich some people pretend to find with Knowles is, that ness-into that drowsy negative species of acting, with he trusts too much to situation, and too little to poetry. which no one can find fault. What man was ever great, This objection arises from not understanding the proper with whom, and with whose works, there were not a mode of producing dramatic effect. What is it that the thousand faults to be found? Macready stirs us into dramatic writer aims at ?-it is to obtain a command powerful emotion, and therefore the end of his calling is over the passions of his reader or his auditor. There are fulfilled; he does nearly all that a tragic actor is expected two ways of doing this,-either by making the persons to do. Unless his benefit be better attended on Monday in his play describe the strong emotions which they feel, than his performances have hitherto been, we conceive a or by putting them directly and distinctly in such situa- stain will be cast upon the dramatic taste of Edinburgh, tions that it is impossible for them to avoid feeling strong which it will be difficult to wash out. emotion, whether they describe it or not. The great talent of a dramatic writer is, to conceive such situations, and to make them succeed each other in a rapid and apparently natural order. It is here that Knowles excels; his plays are full of dumb poetry, which nevertheless speaks to the heart far better than a long array of words could do. In a stage representation, we must see fully as much as hear. The dramatic poet approximates nearer the painter and the sculptor than any other poet. Do we deny the artist genius because the groups which he conceives, and the attitudes into which he throws them, are silent? Then do not let us deny genius of the highest order to Knowles, when we find that his living pictures take a still stronger hold of our recollections. It is a vulgar mistake that all poetry must be written. Whatever excites the soul, and touches the heart, is full of poetry; and he who created that exciting cause, is a poet. Would the flower be more beautiful, were it to speak and proclaim its loveliness, or the sun more glorious, were it to declare itself so, as with the voice of a trumpet? At the same time, let it not be supposed that we think Knowles's words feebler than his conceptions. His composition, on the contrary, is full of fire and energy, and did space permit, we could at this moment quote a hundred passages to make good our assertion. He catches a thought, and states it in a line, or half a line, and then looks out for a new thought. There is with him no beating about the bush, no lingering by the way. Every fresh sentence adds something to the general stock; and the whole taken together make a tragedy, instinct with animation from beginning to end. We know there are many who will think we have carried our praise too far; and the reason is, that to the literary world, Knowles personally is scarcely known at all. Authors are like a bundle of sticks, they prop up each other. If a writer, with moderate talents, has a numerous circle of literary friends, there is no fear of him,-they will carry him through in spite of fate. If, on the contrary, he either shuts himself up from mankind, or buries himself in a large mercantile town, as Knowles has done, c'en est fait, there is no hope for him; he is looked on as an interloper, an upstart, somebody that nobody knows any thing about. We rejoice to observe, that Knowles has been spoken of more than once in the LITERARY JOURNAL, and always with that respect which genius, such as his, is entitled to. But why are the Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews, Blackwood's Magazine, the New Monthly, and the Old Monthly, all silent regarding one, whose " Virginius" has been played on every stage in the kingdom, in America, in France, and in Holland?

We have almost lost sight of Macready; but the praises we have bestowed upon Knowles, will illustrate our feelings towards him. He is an actor worthy of the poet. In bringing out the nicer beauties and graces of a character, he is probably inferior to Young; but whenever there is any thing difficult to be done, Macready is the man to do it. In smooth sailing, many a light craft might pass him by; but let the gale come and the sea grow rough, and show us the actor who will ride through the storm better than Macready. It is this that we value in a great tragedian; we care little or nothing for one who is perpetually smooth and correct; we want a man to show us that he has his whole soul in what he is about, Let him



'Tis true, I may smile; but they guess not, my heart,

How dark are the thoughts in thy depths that abide; How unknown amid friends and all lonely thou art— Pale sorrow thy birthright, and nothing beside!

Though sad is the doom of the Exile who roves

Estranged from the land of his happiest years; Though, when Fancy restores him the scenes that he loves, All his soul gushes forth in a fever of tears;

Yet 'tis sadder by far in a dear home to dwell,

With spirits still near thee fond vigil to keep, And feel that thy heart is so chain'd by a spell

It may wither or break-but its woe cannot weep!

I envy the Exile, and gladly would roam,

Unfriended, to dwell beneath far foreign skies, If Memory would bring me one vision of home,

To call forth a tear from my languishing eyes.

But the fountain is seal'd! and, as flowers veil the tomb,

My smiles veil the darkness that robes thee, my heart; And they guess not, who pass me in life's happy bloom, How unknown amid friends and all lonely thou art! GERTRUDE.


BELOVED! When death is o'er me stealing,
O! weep thou not for me!

Stir not my soul to such wild feeling
In that last hour with thee!
Look on me calm as thou dost now,
With fond and gentle eye,

And, reading peace on thy mild brow,
In peace I fain would die.

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The first ball smash'd the bottle-house
That stood on the shore at Leith,
And then it sunk the good guard ship
That was anchor'd off Inchkeith;

And then through the water it went with a whirr,
Till it knock'd down the inn at Pettycur.

The second ball pass'd through the Calton Hill,
And down came jail and monument;

A carriage and four may now be driven
Through the tunnel its passage rent:

The third ball flew in a zig-zag way, That made the Highlander stare;

It took off the dome of St George's Church
As it pass'd over Charlotte Square,
And is still to be seen in a shady nook
Very near Mr Jeffrey's house at Craigcrook.

The terror this single shot produced
All round for twenty miles,

To me was the source of much delight,
And of many playful smiles:-
By Jove! when again I fire Mons Meg,
I'll put in my friend with the philabeg!

TO E. G.

By Thomas Tod Stoddart.

THOU art upon my tide of thought
A fair and floating thing,
Like to some sea-bird merrily
Adrift upon its wing.

And though a shower of sorrow fall
From cloud that passeth o'er,
"Twill be but as some baptism
To bind me yet the more.

I love thee; but I am content

To feed my thoughts alone, Within my own heart's solitude, If that it be my own.

H. G. B.

I vow'd a vow by moon and star,
And by the emerald sea,

By the winds that travel fast and far,
By the plume of forest tree.

I vow'd a vow by day and night,
By harvest and by spring,

By bloom of flower, and autumn blight,
And every holy thing!

I vow'd a lifetime and a love; And they, however long, Shall all be dedicate to thee,

In silence and in song!


His Majesty, it is stated, has graciously permitted George Colman to dedicate his Random Records, now nearly ready, to him.

The Records of Captain Clapperton's last Expedition to Africa, by Richard Lander, his faithful attendant, and the only surviving member of the expedition, with the subsequent adventures of the author, are nearly ready for publication.

Captain Dillon's Voyages in Search of the Wreck of La Perouse will appear speedily.

Messrs Westley and Davis announce for publication, early in the ensuing year, an edition of the Old Testament, with the substitution of the original Hebrew names in place of the English words Lord and God, and of a few corrections thereby rendered necessary; with Notes by the Editor.

Mr Carne's new work consists, we understand, of Recollections of Travels in Syria and Palestine that could not be included in his two volumes of "Letters from the East," to which, therefore, the present may be considered as a third volume. Besides much personal adventure, the subjects described are, the Valley of Zabulon, Source of the River Jordan, Scene of the Prophets, Sacrifice, Valley of Ajalon, Sepulchre of the Virgin Mary, Scene of the Encampment of the Host of Israel, Village of Endor, Cave of Elijah, Waters of Mara, and other sacred localities on which the pious mind often dwells in serious meditation.

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