tised, is surely preferable, in such difficult cases, to the unprofessional self-recommended comforter." I once encountered the presence of a very well-meaning person, at the bed of a boy of seven years, who was apparently dying of a fever, and whose reason did but imperfectly minister to his perception of those around him. The lady hung, at the risk of an infectious disease, over the bed of the sick child, exclaiming from time to time, with an intensity of voice and mental anxiety which alarmed me for her own intellect, "Oh, tell me, my boy-my dear boy-oh! tell me, have you any hope-have you any hope?" I say, that on this occasion I did right, as the clergyman of the parish, in clearing the house, and even the parish, of such injudicious comforters.

An old man of ninety, the greater part of whose life had been spent in the eldership, and in full communion with, and regular attendance upon, the church, came at last to be placed upon his deathbed, and, unhappily for himself, under the mistaken solicitudes of a young lady, whose zeal was at least a match for her knowledge. The elder's mind seemed completely made up upon his spiritual condition; nor did he shrink from expressing, in the most becoming and humbled manner possible, his confidence in the mercy of that God who had made, preserved, and ultimately redeemed him, and whose blood was capable of procuring the remission of his many sins. This state of mind, which appeared to me the most desirable imaginable, did not exhibit the same aspect to my female assistant; she spoke long and earnestly "on particular grounds of assurance," and particular dates of conversion and regeneration. This at once bewildered and terrified the poor elder, and it was not without some difficulty that I was enabled to restore him to that comfortable frame of mind, from which, by such, to say the least of it, rash and uncalled-for interposition, he had been driven.

I could multiply instances, but these are sufficient to illustrate my meaning a meaning, which leaves to real and unassuming piety a field of usefulness and benevolence at once inviting and extensive, and which only hedges it out from such cases as, from their very nature, are capable of being misunderstood and mismanaged. I am no enemy to religious zeal, in woman particularly. I think that when such zeal is chastened by good feeling, and directed by good sense, it is the loveliest feature in her countenance-the brightest ornament in her dress the most graceful movement in her daily walk. It is, indeed, twice blessed, both in respect of others and her self. I would wish merely to brighten the flame, by removing the snuff-to trim the lamp into undimmed splendour, by double-refining the oil by which the flame is supported. T. G.

MY NEW COAT.

A FRAGMENT.

said to myself, "They may look at it if they please." I resolved, however, not to walk as if I were conscious that I wore a new coat. I assumed an easy, good-humoured, condescending kind of air; and the expression of my countenance seemed benevolently to indicate that I would have addressed a few words to an old friend, even although he appeared in a coat that I had seen him in six months before. I did not wear my Indian handkerchief in my breast; for I look upon that as a strata. gem to which men should resort only when the front parts of their coat get threadbare. I put my handkerchief (it is real India, and I have only one of the sort,) into my coat pocket, and I allowed one of the yellow corners to hang out as if by accident. I occasionally con veyed it from my pocket to my nose; but, when I re. placed it, a yellow corner, by the same accident, always hung out.

At the corner of Castle Street, several porters touched their hats to me; and two maid-servants, who were standing at the top of their area-stair, looked after me till I was out of sight. When I came to where the coaches are, opposite the Assembly Rooms, three or four men asked me if I wanted a coach; but, though the compliment rather pleased me, I declined their offers in a dignified and gentlemanly manner. Just as I passed Gardner's shop, or between that and M'Diarmid's, an individual, rather shabbily dressed, whispered in my ear, " Any old clothes to sell, sir?" I answered "No!" rather gruffly; for my first impression was, that a kind of sneer was intended at my new coat; but, on reflection, I feel convinced that these old-clothes-men only address persons of gentlemanly appearance; and therefore I take this opportunity of publicly expressing my regret for my severity to the individual in question, who, I am sorry to repeat, was rather shabbily dressed. Hitherto I had met with little to ruffle me.

Just as I turned into South Hanover Street, I rubbed against a white phantom, who passed on as if nothing had happened, but who left the whole of my right arm and shoulder covered with flour and dust. The daring villain was a baker, and, with a ruthless barbarity worthy only of a lineal descendant of the murderer Haggart, he had attempted to destroy for ever my coat and my happiness. Fortunately, an obliging footman, who was near me at the time, seeing my distress, lifted his hand, and, by a pretty violent application of it to my back and side, succeeded in restoring me to comparative peace of mind. I got into Prince's Street. The sun was shining brightly; all the world was abroad; but I did not meet with one whose coat was so new as my own. I felt my superiority; I perceived that I was an object of universal attention. I don't know how many black eyes glanced sunshine into mine; I cannot recollect the number of blue oglers that stole my heart at every step. Opposite Blackwood's shop, a gentleman, in a blue surtout and green spectacles, stopped me, and, addressing me in French, gave me to understand that he was a Spanish refugee— very poor and very miserable and that, as he had been informed I was celebrated for my charitable actions, he hoped I would afford him a little assistance. I was rather pleased with the stranger's address; but how he came to be informed that I was celebrated for my charitable actions, I confess I cannot very well comprehend; for, with the exception of a penny I threw to a little boy who continued scraping on the fiddle under my window one day after dinner when I was falling asleep, I do not think I have given away a farthing in charity for the last nine months. The Spanish refugee, however, in green spectacles, had done me the honour to single me out, probably in consequence of the air of distinction which my new coat gave me, and it would have been very inhuman in me not to have presented him with He received it with much gratitude, and

I went on towards the Calton Hill.
Passing the Waterloo Hotel, I encountered a cloud of

dust, which I did not at all like, but which I was philosopher enough to submit to in silence. Severer evils were awaiting me. After I had ascended the hill, the day suddenly overcast; big, heavy drops of rain began to fall -faster and faster-till a thunder-shower came tumbling down with irresistible violence. Good Heaven! rain— thunder-rain upon a new coat-the very first day I had ever put it on! I turned back-I ran-I flew-but in vain! Before I could reach the nearest place of shelter, I was completely drenched. I could have wept, but I was in too great agony to think of weeping. When I got to the east end of Princes' Street, there was not a coach on the stand. I might have gone into Barry's or Mackay's, but it would have been of no use,-I was as wet as I could be. I walked straight home through the splashing streets. I do not think that I was in my right reason. I was to have dined out in my new coat, and now it would never look new again! It was soaked in water. I put my hand in my pocket mechanically to take out my silk handkerchief-I don't know why; Heaven and earth! it was gone; my pocket had been picked! I had lost my new silk handkerchief. The horrible conviction flashed upon me that the Spanish refugee in green spectacles, who had complimented me on my charitable actions, and to whom I had given half-a-crown, took it from me. I reached home, more dead than alive. I threw off my coat, and sent it to the kitchen to be dried. My cook is a very good woman, but she is rather fat. I sat by myself, meditating upon the uncertainty of human life. My reverie lasted a long while. Suddenly an odour like that of a singed sheep's head reached my nostrils. I started up; in a moment the fatal truth crossed my mind; I rushed into the kitchen; my cook was fast asleep; and my coat was smoking before the fire, burned brown in a dozen different places, with here and there several small boles. I seized a carving knife to stab the cook to the heart; but, in my impetuosity, I tumbled over a kitchen tub, and as I fell, my head struck with a bump upon the cook's lap. She started up, and, calling me a " base monster," fled from the kitchen as fast as her dumpy legs could carry her dumpier carcass. I thought of committing suicide; but just at that moment the chambermaid came to tell me that the tailor had called to know how I liked my new coat. I pushed my arm through one of the holes that had been burned in the back of it,-tottered into the dining-room where he was waiting for me,-and fell in a swoon at his feet.

Mr Robert Southey-
He is rather mouthy;
His poems are very long,
And mostly very drouthy.

There's one Wordsworth by name,
A poet of some fame,
And none by line or letter
Knows the WORTH of WORDS better.
If he were not so affected,
He would not be so neglected;
But let them say what they can,
There is something in the man.
I write this paragraph at him
To hinder folks to laugh at him.
Mr Professor Wilson,-
People won't have their fill soon
Of all that he can write,

And of all he can indite;

For his soul is a moon-streamer,
And a very glorious dreamer!

There's his friend, the Ettrick Shepherd,
Who is spotted like a leopard,
With faults and beauties mix'd,
And but little room betwixt :
He's as vulgar as a sailor,
And conceited as a tailor;
But no more with him I'll meddle,
For he plays upon the fiddle.

There's one Allan Cunninghame,
Who is mentioned by fame;

But I'm sorry I scarce know of him
So much as I would show of him.
I have only seen his tragedy,

Right clever, though quite mad she be,
And some ballads, which I know
Are but rather so and so;
For he uses terms too holy
For a strain of mirth and folly.

But too long I have neglected
One who long will be respected,
For a poem I love well

On the Warning of Lochyell;
And there's likewise one on Hope,
Where he gives his muse some scope;
But Gertrude of Wyoming
Is but a sickly thing.

There are poets of great fame,
Which I scarcely know by name;

Such as Mr Moore or Little,
Who seems to have been kittle
When the lasses were concern'd,

Which can easily be learn'd
From spontaneous confession

In the turn of his expression.

There's a chap I fain would mangle, With a name like a triangle

A poet most profound,

If poetry is sound;

But, for all the world, one I call

With a tinkling harmonical;—

That man's common sense to gather
Goes beyond the length of my tether.
Willie Aitchison (deil tak' him!)
Still raves of one John Malcolm,
And his verses o'er does blunder,
In a voice like rolling thunder;
Now, I could him allow
To talk well of tarry woo,
Which would be a deal discreeter
Than to turn a bad repeater,
And pretended judge of metre.

I have lately heard some raillery

Of a poet, Mr Sillery,

A name the most egregious,

And a poet most outrageous.

AMERICAN literature is as yet a very small thing. Nor do we say this as a reproach; it is impossible that it could be otherwise. A great nation has a thousand things to do before it can sit down and either write or read books. Literature is the offspring, not of civilization alone, but of a considerable degree of luxury. In the infancy of states, all classes are too much engrossed with the pressing affairs of the moment, to be able either to moralize or philosophize on paper concerning them. Laws have to be made, lands have to be cleared, cities have to be built, provisions have to be procured, public officers have to be elected, foreign and domestic enemies have to be held at bay, and life must be one constant scene of activity and bustle. What matters it to the inhabitants of such a state, that the Egyptians were learned in astronomy thousands of years ago? Will the man who has read Homer and Herodotus be able to open a store, or general wholesale and retail shop, with greater advantage to himself and the community? Should Horace " De Arte Poetica," or Cicero against Catiline, be studied, by way of preparation for cutting down trees in the back settlements? Will young ladies pore over fashionable novels, if there be not a single fashionable person in the place of their nativity? Or will gentlemen delight in "Tours to the Continent," if their whole minds be taken up with the discovery of some practicable means of making a tour through their own estate? It is right that all young dynasties should have next to no literature, else it will be built on a sandy foundation, and will not last above a dozen lustrums. Look for the golden age in the literature of all countries, and it will be invariably found, that it is to be dated at a period when the country had acquired stability and vigour throughout all its ramifications. Intellectual pre-eminence has never yet been gained in any one instance, until by its display of physical strength, resources, and achievements, a nation has proved itself entitled to respect. It is only when the sword hangs upon the wall, that has flashed triumphantly over the battle-field, and when the gallant vessel lies idle in the harbour, whose thunders have been heard afar upon the main, and when the peasant sleeps securely, and the wealth of the noble glitters unmolested, it is only then that the voice of song will be listened to in the valley, or on the green hill side, and that philosophy may be seen on the house-tops counting the

stars.

PRICE 6d.

Let us not twit the Americans, then, with wanting as yet what it has always taken ages to obtain-a national literature. They know well what they are about, and slowly and surely they are following out the natural order of things. It is folly to say, as has been said, that the Americans, being our descendants, and speaking our language, and reading our classics, enjoy the same advantages that we do, and ought already to be producing as many literary characters as we ourselves. They are our descendants, it is true, and may certainly bless their stars that the English language is their mother tongue; but they have become an independent people, entirely separated from us by an immense ocean, and, as yet, have had little enough time to think of how they are to gain a position in the world at all, and scarcely any time to think of how they are to maintain that position. But, short as their time has been, they have made good progress towards getting things into a regular train; and when once all the machinery of their vast empire is properly fitted, there is every reason to believe that it will proceed to work at a rate which will not lightly astonish some of the lazy pieces of worn-out clock-work, now feebly ticking and vibrating in the old world. Let but the "mighty heart" of that vast continent send forth the blood in free and healthy circulation through all its arteries and veins, and it will rise up the "giant of the western wave," to laugh, perhaps, at the feeble flights of our earlier and less concentrated geBehind the Americans, as it were, lie all the lore and long-cherished associations of Asia, Africa, and Europe; before them, is their own fresh, boundless, and magnificent land. They may cull what they choose from the past, they may mould it into any forms they please; but the power of creation is in the future; and why should they not" call spirits from its vasty deep?" Why should they not find, by Ontario's shores, or on Chimboraco's height, or by Mississippi's stream, or in New England's depth of forest, that for which our best and noblest have long looked in vain-a new source of poesy-higher and sublimer glimpses into the hidden mysteries of nature?

nius.

These reflections have been partly suggested to us by looking over the works whose titles stand at the head of this article. The Atlantic Souvenir, which has now existed for four years, is a publication precisely similar in its plan and appearance to the Literary Souvenir of this country. It was the first of the American annuals; but both Boston and New York speedily followed the example of Philadelphia. Every article in these works, with the exception of one or two minor pieces by Mrs Hemans, is the production of Americans; and as the editors have followed the example set them in Great Britain, of endeavouring to collect contributions from all their most celebrated writers, these volumes afford a pretty fair specimen of what the Americans can at present do in this way. We are no great admirers of the intellectual strength even of our English annuals; but, nevertheless, against the celebrated names which they bring into the literary arena, we are afraid that those of Percival, Paulding, Bryant, Halleck, Barker, Sedgwick, Brooks, and Waln, make but a poor appearance. It is hardly fair, however, to subject to so trying a contrast these Transatlantic authors. We shall