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sculptor, and dwelt with peculiar satisfaction in recalling the amiable qualities that distinguished his deceased friend.

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The Sculptors of Scotland."

Mr. THOMAS CAMPBELL, as the senior Scottish Sculptor present, begged to return thanks.

"The Memory of Sir Henry Raeburn."

Shortly after this the Duke of Hamilton left the company amidst the loudest acclamations of applause.

The chair was then taken by Sir Archibald Campbell, and successively by Sir Alexander Wood and Sir James Gordon. The jovial songs of Burns and of Cunningham kept up the hilarity of the meeting to a late hour; and in recalling national feelings and recollections, under the walls of the Capitol and the Palace of the Cæsars, shewed the peculiar characteristics of the sons of that mountain district which the Cæsars could never conquer.

DAVID WILKIE, R. A.

It is a fact not generally known, that St. Bernard's Crescent was built at the suggestion of this celebrated artist. While on a visit to Sir Henry Raeburn, he was struck with the picturesque effect of a double row of stately elms, and proposed to his friend to erect on each side of the trees a deep crescent, in the purest style of Grecian architecture. It must be gratifying to Mr. Wilkie to learn, that the houses and grounds vie in effect with any in Edinburgh.

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LINES

Written in the Livre d'Etrangers of the Union Hotel at Chamond -by the late Lord BYRON.

How many number'd, and how few agreed

In age, in clime, in character, or creed?

Here wand'ring Genius leaves an unknown name,
And Folly writes-for others do the same;
Italian treachery and English pride,

Dutch craft and German dulness, side by side;
The hardy Russian hails congenial snow;
The Spaniard shivers as the breezes blow;
Know we the objects of this varied crew-
To stare how many, and to feel how few!
Here Nature's child, ecstatic from the school,
And travelling problems that admire by rule;
The timorous poet woos his modest Muse,
And thanks his stars he's safe from all reviews;
The pedant drags from out his motley store
A line some hundred hills have heard before;
Here critics too (for where's the happy spot
So bless'd by nature as to have them not)?
Spit their vile slaver o'er some simple phrase
Of foolish wonder, or of honest praise-
Some pompous hint, some comment on mine host,
Some direful failure, or some empty boast;
Not blacker spleen could fill these furious men,
If Jeffrey's soul had perch'd on Gifford's pen!
Here envy, hatred, and the fool of fame,
Join'd in one act of wonder when they came;
Here beauty's worshiper in flesh or rock,
The incarnate fancy and the breathing block,
Sees the white giant, in his robe of light,
Stretch his huge form to look o'er Jura's height;
And stops when hastening to the blest remains
And hidden beauties of more classic plains;
And here whom Hope beguiling bids to seek
Ease for his breast and colour for his cheek,
Still steals a moment from Ansonia's sky,
And looks and wonders on his way-to die!
But he, the author of these idle lines,

What passion leads him, and what tie confines?
For him what friend is true, what mistress blooms?
What joy elates him, or what grief consumes?

Impassioned, senseless, vigorous, or old,
What matters!-bootless were his story told.
Some praise at least one act of sense may claim-
He wrote these verses, but he veil'd his name.

BARON ROTHSCHILD.

SOMEBODY asked the Baron Rothschild to take venison. "No," said the Baron, "I never eatsh wenshon, I don't think it ish so coot ash mutton."-"Oh," said the Baron's friend, "I wonder at your saying so. If mutton were better than venison, why does venison cost so much more?" "Vy," replied the Baron, "I vill tell you vy-in dish world de peoples alvaysh prefers vat ish deer to vat is sheep."

ANECDOTE OF SIR RICHARD JEBB. SIR RICHARD being called to see a patient who fancied himself very ill, told him ingenuously what he thought, and declined prescribing, thinking it unnecessary. "Now you are here," said the patient, "I shall be obliged to you, Sir Richard, if you will tell me how I must live, what I may eat, and what not." directions as to that point," replied Sir Richard, "will be few and simple. You must not eat the poker, shovel, or tongs, for they are hard of digestion; nor the bellows, because they are windy; but any thing else you please!"

"My

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TO MISS SMITH,

On seeing her perform at Newcastle during the Race-Week, and recite Collins' Ode on the Passions.

SWEET maid, thy charms some other pen may find,
Sweet as thou art, I wish to paint thy mind,
Thy captivating grace, thy charming ease,
Thy ev'ry wish, thy ev'ry thought to please;
With what enchanting sweetness, magic art,
Dost thou perform thy vary'd, chequer'd part!
Tho' Collins, envy'd Bard! the passions drew,
To give them action was reserv'd for you;
Thy face expressive, can each passion shew,
From flights of rapture down to deepest woe;
Each inward thought-for all alike to thee,
The look of grief, the cheerful laugh of glee;
Fear, despair, and veneration holy,
Love, and joy, and sober melancholy;
Anger, revenge, and jealousy display,
Pity, content, or hope's deluding ray;

'Twould melt a heart of stone to see thee weep,
Or start terrific from a partial sleep,

When horrid dreams have all their powers combin'd,
To rack thy brain, or to disturb thy mind;

Go, shine, like her who now, grown old in fame,
Of" greatest Actress" has acquir'd the name;
Go, display thy powers to th' admiring age,
And rise another Siddons on the stage;
May thy great soul each softer passion feel,
Nor on thy calm repose, the fiercer steal;
May bliss attend, and fortune never frown,
But to thy fondest hope, thy wishes crown.
June 27th.

THE FATE OF A BEGGAR BOY. 'MIDST darkness drear the tempest howl'd, The hoary tyrant sternly scowl'd,

And whiten'd hill and dale;

With drifting snows the thickened air
In wild disorder sung despair,
And omen'd tragic tale.

I

A beggar boy by hunger press'd,
And, by the storm severe, distress'd,
To Cockburnspath he hied;

Expecting there a shelter warm,
From biting frost and pelting storm,
But this he was denied.

His purse was pennyless, and he
No pledge could give-but all his plea
Was penury and cold;

But prison'd up in triple steel,
A heart untaught to weep, to feel,
Dismiss'd him with a scold.

In vain he urg'd the threatening blast,
In vain his wishful eyes he cast

Where blaz'd the cheering fire;
The door was shut-no mercy given !
He heaves a silent prayer to heaven,
To guard from winter's ire.

Again he trode his weary way,
While hope by turns, and dark dismay,
Possess'd his shivering breast.
To reach some peasant's homely cot,
Where mercy mild, to heaven devote,
Would not his plaint resist.

The blazing hearth, the inmates kind,
And rural meal, rushed on his mind,
And rais'd his fainting soul;

Anon he sinks, again revives,

And waddles on, and sinks and strives,
While storm'd the icy Pole.

He yields at last-benumb'd and cold,
The gelid snows his frame infold,
No more a beggar boy;

His struggling spirit sped to heaven,
No more by want or tempest driven,
He quaffs celestial joy.

Dunse, 28th March, 1827.

W.

The melancholy event to which the above lines refer, we have been told, did not take place.-Ed.

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