veral offers; but she refused to hear of any one but Dr Dick.

Nor was this all. Dr Dick, having made a handsome fortune in the East Indies, came home and purchased an estate, called Tullimet, in the neighbourhood where he was born. There he lived in a most hospitable manner, and Mrs Dick and he were highly and deservedly respected. He also had a house in London, where he resided during the winter season ;* and having acquired, from his experience in the East Indies, a great reputation for his skill in the management of liver complaints, he was frequently consulted by his Indian friends respecting that disorder. It seems that Sir Walter Scott was afflicted with a complaint in his liver, which was likely to prove fatal to him. Hearing of Dr Dick's fame, Sir Walter was induced to apply to him for advice, and by his means the life of that celebrated author was preserved.

THE ROVER'S SHIP.

By Allan Cunningham.

O'ER Criffel top the sun sank red and bright,
The mist curl'd round the mountain thin and grey,
Full on the sea the moon her level light

Threw in long lines on headland, beach, and bay;
The meanest star which gems the milky way
Shone with increase of lustre; clear as noon

Were seen the seagulls, rock'd on waves alway;

On earth below, in radiant heaven aboon,

Still stood the reapers on the headland grey, At this bold bark all marvelling, and all mute— When, all at once, rung cliff, and bight, and bay, And creak and cavern, to their startling shout:— "Stand, stand, to seaward! veer your bark about! Rocks lurk in foam, sand banks lie on the lee !" Some fiend has shaped ber, else what ship could shoot O'er Robin Rigg in that dread haunted sea, Where nought that's made by man can safe and skaithless be!

An old man look'd, whose tresses, thin and boar,
The snows of seventy winters wore and seven,
O'er nature's myst'ries much loved he to pore,
And in her aspect read the will of Heaven ;-
"The fiend makes forms from darkness or wild levin,
And this is one of his dread spectral ships;
It comes to talk of men to judgment given
By flood and field, by tempest and eclipse :”

He ceased, and a slow prayer came mutter'd from his lips.

"It is the ship," he said again; "I know

Her well; no mariner trims nor sheet nor sail;
Her freight is human misery and woe,
Sorrows unnumber'd, and diseases pale;

She taints with pest for seven long leagues the gale;

As I stood once aneath the wan-moon flame,

I heard a shout, aud then I beard a hail,
Then down to Solway walk'd an ancient dame,

the moon.

The weary peasants to the homeward horn,

Came sauntering, gladsome, down by Elvan-brook;
That day, beneath the golden-bearded corn,
Full deftly had they moved the reaping-book:
Old men behind came numbering every stook;

But when they walk'd where cliffs the frith o'ertower,
Upon the sea's cool loveliness to look,

They stood, they graver grew, the sober hour

Of eve and the wild sea o'er rudest minds have power.

Behind them stream'd the lights of Elvan-hall, 'Mongst fruit-tree groves and shafts of cedar-trees; Before them rush'd a ship, whose topmast tall With snow-white sails stoop'd forward on the seas, And groan'd and quiver'd with the growing breeze; Away it danced, and wanton'd in its pride, Like colt new loosen'd on its native leas; Its burnish'd prow cut swift in twain the tide, And threw the foaming brine in furrows on each side.

Her loosen'd pinion, fluttering free and far, Flew high in air as flies the mounting lark Caught with the wind, and stream'd to every star; While forward bounding on its shadow dark, Through haunts of sea-fowl flew the gallant bark; Far, far behind rose Skiddaw-shone Saint Bee:It was a sight worth musing on, to mark Man's frail work breasting so the billows free, And like a thing of life walk on the swallowing sea.

And had it been a thing of life, and not Hew'd by the axe, shaped by the fashioner's hand, It had not sail'd more freely; there it shot Past shelving sunk-rocks, and o'er sucking sandIt seems to lift its wings to fly to land; Forward it goes with many a bound and leap, Nor heeds the wrecks piled threefold on the strand. It braves them all-snores o'er the whirlpool deep, And sweeps the mermaid bank which makes the mothers weep.

His daughter is married to the eldest son of Lord Harris, the conqueror of Tippoo Saib; and his son is a distinguished officer, who commanded the 12d Regiment at the Battle of Waterloo.

"Eastward she look'd-from her left foot took she Her shoe, and launch'd it on the shuddering wave; Like to a beaten baby moan'd the sea,

And heaven above in darkness match'd the grave:
First rose a mist-the mist a whirlwind clave,
And from the middle darkness started out

A goodly shallop, mano'd and masted brave,
On board then stept that fearful bag and stout,

On man, beast, bird, and fish, she dealt ber spells about.

"The first spell fell on fish: In streams and lakes The trout and salmon lay, and gasp'd for life. The second fell on beasts: Cows at the stake, And sheep on mountains, where the moorfowis rife, Moan'd like things lying 'neath the butcher's knife. The third spell fell on man: A bridegroom blithe Fled forth the chamber from his bedded wife.” A matron, with a visage like a scythe, Cried, "Hech! I mind him well; his name was Hagh Forsyth !"

THE MIGRATIONS OF A SOLAN GOOSE.

By one of the Authors of "The Odd Volume," " Tales and Legends," &c.

"WELL, Bryce," said Mrs Maxwell one day to her housekeeper, "what has the gamekeeper sent this week from Maxwell Hall?"-" Why, madam, there are three pair of partridges, a brace of grouse, a woodcock, three hares, a couple of pheasants, and a solan goose. ”—“ A solan goose!" ejaculated the lady; “what could induce him to think I would poison my house with a solan goose ?"" He knows it is a dish that my master is very fond of," replied Mrs Bryce. "It is more than your mistress is," retorted the lady; "let it be thrown out directly before Mr Maxwell sees it."

The housekeeper retired, ` Mrs Maxwell resumed her cogitations, the subject of which was how to obtain an introduction to the French noblesse who had recently taken up their abode in Edinburgh. "Good beavens!" said she as she hastily rung the bell," how could I be so stupid?—there is nothing in the world that old Lady

Mark his form of pride!

Manhood's in his bearing! In his heart reside

Honour, feeling, daring! He a bondsman !-Where's

The mark of slave about him?His heart a traitor's! Theirs

Not half so true who doubt him!

Put your best robe on!

Lift your head, my mother! Glory in your son!

Ask, "Where's such another?" Sons you have beside

Who love you-never heed 'em! They share their mother's pride,

To see their brother's freedom!

Give your franchised child,

In woe that ne'er denied you, His place, where once he smiled, The highest seat beside you! To him the goblet crown,

To him o'er every other, Nor call that brother son

Who'll grudge to toast his brother!

His tale of bondage, when

You ask, would he relate it, No blush your cheek need stain, Howe'er a tear may wet it! His soul disdain'd to tame,

No crouching thoughts debased it! His faith be kept; his name

He own'd-avow'd-and graced it.

O! the feast is sweet,

O'er sorrows past partaken; Hearts around it meet!

There feelings new awaken!

Look, Erin!-would you know

Your own your bright-eyed daughter:

I thought her fair-but, O!

She's fair to what I thought her!

A toast! the cup is mine!

Fill up 'tis worth a flagon!

Saint George!-of twenty-nine,
Who slew indeed the dragon!
The foe of Erin's weal,

That scourged the land that bore him; And dared the champion's steel,

But bit the dust before him!

A health! The toast's with youI know him, ere you name him; He fought at Waterloo,

And we've the pride to claim him! In many a land he found

A wreath of deathless glory; But won on British ground

The field that crown'd his story!

The BRITON now!-What brim That's true to worth but's glowing? The cup, that's crown'd to him,

Be, like our hearts, o'erflowing! Our name dishonour blot!

Our land by slaves be lorded! When ANGLESEA's forgot,

And Erin's friends recorded! Erin, griev'st thou ? No!

Thou weep'st for joy, my mother! O, how lovely glow

Your smiles and tears together!

PASSAGES FROM A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND.

By John Carne, Author of " Letters from the East," &c.

It was evening when we came to the little hamlet of Lauterbrunn, and its inn, a very neat building: the rest of the dwellings had a wretched appearance. When the

sun went down, the valley was very gloomy; its whole aspect was oppressive to the eye and the imagination: so narrow and deep, its precipices of vast, regular, and perpendicular masses, had nothing picturesque or beautiful in their form. The fall of the Staubbach stole down the declivity so thin and solitary: had it been a rushing and loud cataract, its very sound and tumult would have relieved the gloom and stillness of the vale. But it fell noiseless; even when standing at its foot, the descent can scarcely be heard. There were many similar falls up the valley, all of the like stealthy character; and the huge precipices of limestone fatigued the eye; so that, after wandering about some time, we returned willingly to the

inn.

It is not surprising, that the people of most mountainous countries love to dwell on their hill-sides, rather than in their vales: the free air, the bold view, and the elastic spirit inhaled amidst elevated scenes, are better than the confined and sheltered valleys.

A few days after, we passed through one of the latter, that chased in an instant all the illusions of Swiss happiness and plenty a savage and fearful dwelling-place, over which rose the Aiguille de Caton, ten thousand feet in height, and other snowy peaks were on every side; among the rest, Mont Blanc, though its exquisite form could not be seen from this retreat. The hamlet stood on the banks of a rapid mountain-torrent, which we found great difficulty in passing. It was a chill and gloomy day, and the wind rushed wildly through the vale. The interior of the cottages was squalid and miserable. In winter, the snow was so deep here, as to render it impassable to travellers; and the poor people had to depend only on their own resources; and these resources were so few, and knew no change. They had liberty-boundless liberty, but their supply of wood was scanty for firing; for no forest, or group of trees, was near. ring the whole winter, they were mostly without bread. No field or garden was cultivated in this fearful valley. I have seen many wild and repulsive scenes, but never one that so oppressed the heart and senses as this. It was now summer, and yet no smile of heaven, no solitary beauty, was in the bosom or sides of the vale. It was the dwelling of despair. During the cold season, the people lived chiefly on the milk of their few sheep. The benevolence of the English residents in Switzerland more than once relieved their wants.

Du

How different was the scene, when, passing the Sheideck mountain, we afterwards drew near the beantiful village and vale of Meyringen! the tall spire of its church was visible at a great distance up the mountain. Its women are reputed to be the loveliest in Switzerland. We soon perceived how true was the saying; accustomed so long to see the coarse features and strong masculine frames of the mountain women, the mild, handsome faces and fine figures of the Meyringians were a strange and delightful relief; the laughing valley around, its soft warm air, and the excellent fare of the inn, were not in stronger contrast to the cold precipices and perilous descents we had left behind.

It were an excellent retirement for a man who wished to live cheap and well, amidst the wildest luxuries of nature. Such a man we found here; a captain in the navy, an Englishman, fairly naturalized living for halfa-crown a-day, board and lodging; and strongly attached to his mode of life. He was a hunter, a fisher, and a devourer of all kinds of mountain scenes; glaciers, lonely tarns, glens, avalanches, nothing came amiss. A man of a small, round, active frame, that could bear the severest

exercises: the sport he loved above all was chamois hunt

ing. He joined the hunters in their dangerous excursions; passed whole days and nights amidst the acclivities of the mountains: he spoke with enthusiasm of the sport, which he described as the most exciting he had ever known: that it led one over wastes of snow, and on the edge of hazardous cliffs, with such spirit-stirring emotion, that all sense of fear was lost. He was much liked by the Swiss, especially by the hunters, who seldom found a stranger so fond of their perilous work.

The following day was the Sunday: so closely did it resemble one in Scotland, that, but for the height of the mountains, and the eternal piles of snow, we might have fancied ourselves in the loved land of the north; that the beautiful Hasli, flowing so clearly by, was the Tweed, and the neat and picturesque church, some lonely kirk. But even a Sunday in Scotland, with all its associations, is less impressive than at Meyringen. As the hour drew on, the people were seen winding down the narrow mountain paths on every side. Hamlets were scattered at the height of many thousand feet; forth came their families; their very forms were diminutive at such an elevation: we could see them pass along the brink of descents; then they were lost for a few moments behind the shroud of projecting rocks. Sweetly and solemnly, as they came slowly on, their psalmody was heard coming faintly on the ear. In other parts of the mountains, were solitary cottages, on the very verge of the wastes of snow, whose families came also: the very old men, many of them with their heads uncovered, and their silver hairs scattered by the breeze; the children, and the mothers-none were left behind. And when these groups, gathering from so many parts, drew near, and mingled as they approached the church, we thought we had never seen a sight more moving or noble. It was the power of religion shed over these awful solitudes: it was the voice of God heard amidst the precipices, and the far summits that seemed to pierce the sky. The interior of the church was plain and simple, as was the Lutheran service: the minister's discourse was an unstudied one; and was listened to with deep attention by the assembly who filled the edifice.

When the service was finished, they lingered long without; for on this occasion, friends and acquaintance met, who probably seldom met otherwise, for though they lived around the same extensive valley of Meyringen, their homes were on different mountains, far apart from each other: a direct passage was impracticable, on account of glaciers or precipices. They were a sturdy and healthy race; among them were many very old men; many of them had perhaps seen nothing of the world beyond the confines of their valley, no stream but the Hasli, no town or city. Their wooden cottages, and the rich pastures on the mountain sides, had been the only scenes of their cares and hopes. Those cares had been light, if their serene and still ruddy countenances spoke the truth; there was also the hope, in many a heart, of the world to which they were drawing near. If their youth and manhood were too obscure to envy, the decline of life of these noble peasants was one, for which the traveller or the monarch might sigh.

A CHAPTER ON SKATING.

By William Weir.

of Paradise. Bound away, boys, down this sheer descent! Never mind a tumble! it only carries you faster on. Who built this confounded six-feet wall? Sir Robert Dick? Oh, for one hour of Sir Thomas Dick's Morayshire floods! But this is no time for vain expostulation; so, with one exertion of Roland's gymnastic lessons, here we are upon the ice!

Along Rankeillor Street-away by the side of the new railway-the crowd grows denser and denser; for Laurieston, George's Square, Bruntsfield, Newington, and the Land of Canaan, which is by the river Jordan, have poured forth their shoals to swell the throng. Botanists and braziers, preachers, engravers and zoologists, newspaper editors, annuitants, anatomists and poets, with the females thereunto appertaining,-they push along, a jolly family of sinners. What a crowd about that turnstile! | If you wait till that mass of human atoms ooze through it, one by one, it will be midnight before you reach the lake. Pluck up a heart like a hen, (as we used to say at school,) remember you wear breeches, not petticoats, and with a vault that might excite the envy of Ducrow, high overleap the wall!

Your vigorous daring is well rewarded; for see, you have not only saved time, and escaped a squeeze, but you have managed to keep aloof from that white board, towering like a standard over the compact, solid, brass-bound box of the Skating Club, planted there to lure the sixpence from your fob by the jealous care of the secretary. By Heavens! there is witchcraft in that box. We never go into public but we see it gaping, and never in vain. At the meeting to address the French nation, the first acquaintance we recognised was our old enemy from Samson's Ribs. At the Reform meeting, (for like the Evil One we are to be found everywhere,) on reaching, breathless and bruised, the top of the stairs, the monster was there again. Its ingenious and phrenological keeper must have the bump of acquisitiveness very largely developed.

But "be hushed, my dark spirit," for we are on the eve of turning the corner, and what a scene awaits us there! First, however, let us remark, that the directors of the railway above alluded to, have caused the descent beneath us to be scarped to a fearful degree of perpendicularity, and that the footpath-at least for giddy heads like ours, and those of the fair prattlers immediately behind us is awfully narrow. It is good, says the poet, to find sermons in stones; and therefore do we draw a moral, and earnestly exhort our clerical Apelles not to be too liberal of his noble "Canaries" to the brethren of the brush who haunt his hospitable board, else some dark night may render the halls of the Scottish Academy like unto those of Balclutha, where the thistle waved its lonely beard, and the fox looked out of the window.

And there it is, broad gleaming, the solid and silvery lake! What a crowd already swarm, and shoulder each other upon it! Where the deuce are the good folks behind us to find room? See the skaters, how, with outstretched arms, they curve and wheel, their steel-clad feet gleaming in the winter's sun! Hark to their caredefying laugh, their jocund shout, as, now pursuing, now pursued, they dart and wheel, a sort of winter-swallows,.

"And I have loved thee, ocean!" The quotation can scarcely be called appropriate, so let us drop it. But from boyhood I have known no pleasure equal to skating, except, indeed, swimming, riding, sailing, waltzing, and a round dozen of others. Still skating has always held a high place in my regard. There are many yet alive— alumni, like myself, of Ayr's honoured Academy,—and Heaven alone can tell how widely we are now scattered through the world—who never can forget our moonlight visits to the ice. How, in rapid flight, we held our way along the sinuosities of “auld hermit Ayr," between its lofty banks and shady trees, the self-same course which was pursued by the gentle spirits who stanched the feud between the "New and Auld Brigs;" or how we wheeled merrily upon the narrower space afforded by the dub on the “Laigh Green.” It was there that our young hearts first acknowledged the existence of sentiments we could not then comprehend. In the intervals of our noisy games, fetching long silent sweeps beneath the steady moon, the hollow sound of the neighbouring sea, as it broke upon the long level sands, would fall upon our ears, awakening a wild and solemn thrill, which, though pleasant, had something awful in it that drove us to seek refuge in renewed shouts of laughter.

That was the momentous era in our life, when we were positively able at times to rise in the morning. Often have we bent our way, long before the first dawn of morning, steering our course by the lights about the coal-pits, across the Newton Green towards the Prestwick dubs. But this was perilous work. The blink of the ice gave but a deceptive light, and many a time did we plant our foot with a graceful and imposing propulsion, beyond the verge of the solid surface along which we had been gliding, and come souse down into a wide expanse of water. And then, as was frequently the case, if a long train of us had been scudding along in Indian file, like a flock of wild-geese, those behind were sure to come down upon their hapless leader, till the whole bevy lay wallowing in the water, no unapt counterpart to Milton's picture of the fallen angels. How often, after such an adventure, have we sat cowering and shivering around the fire at the mouth of some coal-pit, holding high converse with the swart spirits of the mine, while our breakfast stood cold and uneaten at home, and our good teachers paced about their empty school-rooms, looking in vain for the truants.

These were the happy days of boyhood, when the intensity of young existence finds sufficing and overflowing happiness in its own consciousness; when we attribute the rich swell of our emotions to the coldest and most barren of external things. The first rude elements of skating were then sufficient; nor did we need extrane. ous adjuncts to enhance their pleasure. It is true, that we laughed heartily when R attempted, in his fiftieth year, to learn to skate, and reared his lank stature among us juveniles, with a pillow stuffed up the back of his coat to make him fall more softly. Nor did we restrain a malicious titter, even when our good Gthe object still of our affectionate reverence, in his anxiety to learn a game which no foreigner ever yet mastered, at every delivery of his curling-stone, came squat upon the