mine of water. At this spot we found ladders placed, by which we descended about 1000 feet, when we came into some large chambers, where there were beds and accommodation for a number of the min ers. The air was now disagreeably warm and close. The rock is here so hard that no tool has any effect upon it, and the only way they have of penetrating it is by large fires which break it. The kindling of this fire is attended with considerable danger, and conducted with great deal of ceremony. It is lighted only on the Saturday, and from the heat it is impossible to enter the mine until Wednesday, and so there are only three working days in this mine. The pile of wood which is to be set on fire is very large. Around it you see about twenty black looking fellows quite naked, standing with burning torches. One of them says a short prayer aloud, and then, upon a signal given, the whole rush upon the pile and set fire to it, and return dancing and hallooing like so many devils. One might, indeed, imagine himself on a visit to the infernal regions. The air rushing from all parts of the mine set it in a blaze in an instant, and then the scene of horror begins; for as there was no passage for the smoke it returned upon us, and the only way in which we could prevent suffocation was by throwing ourselves down, and keeping our faces close to the ground. The cracking of the mountain, which makes you fear being buried alive; the falling of the fragments of the rock, the pushing and calling of the people making their escape, and the strong sulphurous suffocating smell (which I think has the power of producing great nervousness,) altogether made a scene not easily to be forgotten. Selfishness had here great room for display. Every one did what he could for himself, totally regardless of what might befall others. We retired in a direction different from that by which we entered, coming out at the other side of the hill by a passage that had been all properly made for Jerome Bonaparte and his court, when they came from Cassel to be witnesses of this sight. By our guide's account, he was the most active of all in making his escape out of this place. I shall only say, that the moment I revisited heaven's own blessed light, I made a silent vow never again to hunt after extraordinary sights under ground. THE RUNAWAY; A TALE, IN FOUR PARTS. Part I. YOUNG Richard was a likely lad, To keep the wolf outside the door. That wander on the distant downs, When stronger grown, the herds to keep Upon the plain, the charge he owns. At even-tide he seeks his home, Spare diet makes his slumbers light, And with the dawn he wakes to roam:So wastes the day, so wears the night. Once, home returning, on his way, An ancient mariner he spy'd, His garb was soil'd, his locks were grey, His He rested near a streamlet's side. age appear'd beyond three score, One leg of wood, and one of bone, Of baggage scanty was his store; His crutch lay by him on a stone. "Avast! my little man," he cried, "I'm come from Portsmouth all the And I can scarcely stand on deck, Yet thou shall pilot into port Thy poor old uncle's crazy wreck." Then on his shoulder rests his hand, Placing the wallet on his back, They slowly move, or make a stand To take a view, on t'other tack.At last they reach the cottage door, Lifting the latch, they enter in, A table spread the fire before, And supper ready to begin. A welcome sight, I ween to one Who through the storms of life had past, And finds himself, like honest John, In a snug harbour moor'd at last. "Father," cries Dick, "here's uncle come, Old uncle John." When up they start, And welcomed to their humble home A brother, to a brother's heart. Propt on his crutch, behold him stand, And plac'd him in his wicker chair. "Well, Richard, here I be at last; Heart whole, thank God! though not so strong As when I went before the mast. But though I be in badish trim, I've brought the stuff will keep us warm, And this here timber of a limb Shall now cast anchor in a farm: Such as you landsmen would dismay; So Dame you take me, fair and soft; And swing my hammock there aloft." Added new cheese, and curds, and whey, home. Part II. THE cottage trimm'd, the garden dress'd, A cuckoo clock sings out the hour, Their stars, and ribands, still display. Dame Winter's dairy, neat, though small, Three cows with plenty now supplies, Herself so proud, so brisk, withal; For casy is the road to rise. While Richard to the market town, The farm and garden's produce drives, The horse, the cart, are both his own, And merry is the man that thrives. John looks around him with delight, The source so pure, it ne'er can fail, While cheerly pass'd the winter night, He smokes his pipe, or tells his tale. Now Dick no longer tends the sheep, Or drives the cattle out at morn; 'Tis true he now can eat, and sleep, And has a right to have his way. For there, beside an aged yew, Learning had plac'd her humble seat. Sometimes a jump, sometimes a run, Hear, how he works his restless feet! Nor ever can his task repeat. (The teacher cried with serious brow,) And now he in the corner stands, With paper cap, and asses ears, Sentence was pass'd. without appeal; And flog him, till he made him feel. Dick beat a march, and took French In other words, he ran away, Who lik'd, the flogging might receive. His mother made; how uncle swore, And farther still than I can tell, O'er hill, and dale, and woody dell. He made, and scarce took time to breathe, He rested on a barren heath. Some stunted bushes he espy'd, He trembling crept a little nigh'r, Boiling their kettle on a fire. Start from the ground, and round him But what they said he could not tell, End of Part Second. NOTICE FROM THE BRAZILS. Bahia, April 8, 1819. THE English are here called a favoured nation, and no doubt the existing treaties are peculiarly favourable. The productions of the country are also of great value, and it consumes great quantities of English manufactures. It would naturally, therefore, have been supposed, that this commerce must have proved extremely lucrative; this, however, does not appear to be the case, as many of the principal shippers to this country have lately failed in business. The houses established here are chiefly in the commission line, and, therefore, it is evident, that this commerce may have proved very advantageous to them, although ruinous to their principals, as such houses are of course more anxious to force large sales than patiently to wait until goods can be sold to advantage. Neither in general, under such circumstances, is there any remedy, as the market is generally overstocked, and they are frequently compelled to make great sacrifices at the instance of a needy correspondent. The Portuguese originally paid here an inward duty of 16 per cent. ad valorem. When the trade was first opened, English goods were admitted on paying a duty of 24 per cent. which was lowered by the treaty of commerce to 15, while the Portuguese continued to pay at their original rate. This preference in favour of foreigners must evidently have originated in an oversight, otherwise it was so invidious and impolitic, that we must naturally suppose such treaty to have been framed by some enemy to his country, anxious to rouse the jealousy and hatred of the Portuguese. I have been informed, that the Portuguese government have lately turned their attention to this subject, and have lowered the duties paid by their own subjects to the standard of the English. Let it not, however, be supposed, that the English have profited by this advantage, for they have saddled themselves with an equivalent in the dues of consulage which they have imposed, no doubt sagely imagining, that they would still be in the same situation as the native traders. Besides, the fees of consulage common to other places, there is a duty of per cent. inwards, and as much outwards, upon all cargoes which are imported or exported in British vessels. No matter if the property even belongs to a native Portuguese, the consul equally demands his half per cent. and alleges, that he is entitled so to do by an act of Parliament. The consequence of such a regulation, besides its absurdity, is so ruinous to British shipping interest as hardly to require any comment. Many of the natives declare that they would gladly prefer British ships, but are forced to decline them on this account. This is not all; for, when any English vessel arrives in this port merely for the purpose of procuring water and refreshments, the consul, besides the usual fees of office, levies a tonnage duty inwards of 100 rees per ton, and as much outwards. Again, if the ship discharges a few goods, he either charges a per centage or tonnage duty, as may appear most advantageous to him,—thus, in the most arbitrary manner, transferring the charge from the owner of the cargo to the owner of the ship, who, in most cases, have separate interests. It is true that the consul only receives one-third of this sum; a part of it goes to the consulgeneral of Rio Janeiro, and the remainder to the general English fund, which is intended to support an hospital, and pay the salary of a surgeon and elergyman. They, indeed, rent a noble house in the country, which they call an hospital, to which there is a surgeon; but, as there is not a single patient, it is only used for the purposes of convivial meetings. They have a burial-ground, but neither church nor clergyman; but, even if they had, it is very preposterous to levy a duty upon strangers, who merely call here for the purpose of watering, in order to afford spiritual consolation to the residents. The port charges all over the Brazils are sufficiently heavy without such a charge. Although this is an open bay, all ships pay a daily anchorage duty of two milrees, as well as an equal sum to the two customhouse officers, who are sent aboard to prevent smuggling. As such matters cannot have too much publicity, I annex a copy of the port charges of the Admiral Cockburn, which called here for the purpose of watering, and land He poems, by a writer under the assumed "Ah! who can tell how many a soul sub- gedy of Vimonda' in the other. lime Hath felt the influence of malignant star, MR EDITOR, As I happen to be one of the few of your oldest readers, who am also one of the very few now living of the many contributors to the original Scots Magazine, and likewise to the Edinburgh Magazine (first series) begun in 1784, you will indulgently allow me to call your attention to one who bore a part with my able coadjutors, most of whom are, as he now is, no more. Yet he lived some time in the bloom and flush of poetical confidence. Vimonda was even performed several nights; but not with the success the romantic poet, among his native rocks, had conceived was to crown his anxious labours. The theatre disappointed him, and afterwards, to his feelings, all the world!" Had the ingenious narrator of the above been on the spot where Mathew Bramble first drew breath, he would find none of the "native rocks," which he has so poetically commemorated, for ANDREW DONALD, (the Mac was added afterward,) the poet alluded to, was born near the foot of Leith Walk in the year 1755. His father, George Donald, by profession a gardener, with a spirited liberality, (not unusual with " those who toil at the lower employment of life" north of the Tweed,) gave his son an academic education preparative to his entrance on the great theatre of human action. He was initiated in classical erudition at the grammar school of Leith, near "The town," says the elegant wri- the spot of his nativity; on leaving ter of "CALAMITIES OF AUTHORS," which he was entered a student in * was amused almost every morning the University of Edinburgh, where by a series of humorous or burlesque he studied till he was put into dea To those who feel an interest in the literary characters of Scotland, it will not, I flatter myself, be deemed unacceptable to record a few particulars regarding a man of letters and a poet, who lived in the most brilliant period of our Scottish literature, but who, like his contemporary, Logan, pined in secret, and fell early a sacrifice to disappointment, neglect, and consequent calamity. VOL. V. g con's orders, for he was of the Epis copal persuasion, by Bishop Forbes in 1775; and, on this occasion, the pious prelate added the Mac to our poet's name, and ever after he spelled his name Macdonald. "As yet," says the author of the History of Poetry in Scotland," there was no vacant living for young Macdonald; but the patronage of Bishop Forbes procured him a temporary establishment, as preceptor, in the family of the late Mr Oliphant of Gask. In this capacity he remained but a twelvemontb, when, on the sudden departure of Mr Wood, the pastor of the Episcopal congregation at Glasgow for St Petersburgh, Mr Macdonald was appointed to that charge, and went thither in 1777. About this time his worthy patron died, and he was put into priest's orders by the late Bishop Falconer, a man of great piety and simplicity of manners."* Our young ecclesiastic had been five years in his charge ere he commenced his literary career, and his debut was in the character of a poet. He had, as he himself tells us, "projected in very early youth, and carried to a considerable length," a poem, of which he published ninety-nine stanzas in 1782, under the title of "Velina." I transcribe the following stanzas: As this poetical fragment" was sent forth by its author" nameless and unprotected," notwithstanding its merit, it met with but few admirers of taste and sensibility enough to rescue it from the bookseller's dormitories; but this did not discourage our dauntless bard from a fresh literary adventure. In 1784 Macdonald published anonymously his novel called "The Independent," three years at least before his emigration to London; hence, the ingenious writer afore cited must have been egregiously misinformed regarding our author's walk "from Scotland with no other fortune than the INDEPENDENT one pocket, and the tragedy of ViMONDA' in the other." Before he set -out for London the tragedy of Vimonda was brought out on the Edinburgh Theatre-Royal for the benefit whose private character and profesof the late Mr Woods, a gentleman from his fellow citizens, which was sional abilities claimed that respect not withheld. in Vimonda, on Macdonald's arrival in London, was brought out in a splendid style under the guidance and good taste of Mr COLMAN, in summer 1787, and in summer 1788, when the author yet lived" in the bloom and flush of poetical confidence," as Mr D'Israeli elegantly pens it. The tragedy of Vimonda was performed to crowded houses. It abounds in fine writing, and possesses both pathos and felicity of de |