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in what the Quarterly said of them-or rather Lockhart, I presume?
H. W.-I do. By the bye, John Lockbart was in Glasgow, on a visit to his venerable father, as I passed through. He does not seem to have suffered from London smoke.
Goodfellow. So I heard; for, « troubled with a raging tootb" t'other day, I went to my friend Doctor Scott, of course, and
C. H.-Had your tooth pulled ?
Goodfellow.-No; but had so much fun with the sage that the demon took flight, the Doctor lost his fee, and I kept my incisor. Lockhart had jast been calling on him, and had put hiin in excellent spirits. I'll give you an article, if you like, on a new subject -The Pleasures of the Toothache! It should take. But what hare you there?
C. H.-Oh! two specimens of translation, by a young Bowring of Glasgow-a merchant with a single heart and seven languages. He is a fine fellow; and these seem freely rendered. They shall go in, if I have any thing to say to Saveall. Listen.
Love Song of a Bedouin Chief.
FROM THE ARABIC.
Her eye than the gazelle's shines brighter;
Her step than the gazelle's is lighter !
Goodfellow.—I 's, for a crown bowl! Let me read the other.
Paraphrased from the Servian. A pretty maiden sat her down upon the wide sea's brink, And as upon its waves she gazed, she straight began to think ; And then, as thinking oft will end, she next began to talk, For when a woman wants to speak, “ no company's" no baulk: And if to speak with others be a mighty easy task, It is not much more difficult one's self some things to ask: To answer, to be sure, I own, is quite a different thing, Especially if like Lepota's be the questioning. “ What,” said she, "'s broader than the sea? what longer than the
plain? " What swifter than the bounding steed that feels not spur nor rein? " What sweeter than the honey of the roving mountain-bee? “ And, oh! what dearer than the love my brother bears to me?" “ Lepota, thou’rt a foolish girl," a voice soon made reply, “ The ocean's but a stripe beneath heaven's broad blue canopy; “ But yet 'tis wider than the steppe, or even the czar's domains, " And thine eye outstrips the swiftest steed that gallops o'er the
plains. “ The honey dew is not so sweet, as love's first willing kiss, " And cold's a brother's love-embrace to this, sweet girl, to this ! ” Lepota would have answered, --had her lips less close been pressed ; Or the listener and replier been another than Iarest.
THETA. H. W.-The poets are all a-tramping this year, methinks. Campbell has just got home-Wordsworth and Southey are at Harrowgate-Wilson has let his house, or rather paradise, at the Lakes this season and Allan Cunningham is coming down to his own dear Scotland.
C. H.-Sir Walter is a fixed star this year, however. I wonder if it is for the heir of the Jobson estate in Kinross, or the inheritor of the fame of the writer of “ Valerius ” that he pur. poses following out Croker's plan, and writing “ Stories from the History of Scotland.”-Those just published by the minister of Douglas are very admirable, and cheap-a recommendation Sir Walter's will of course, and properly, want. His minutes are the price of others' months. “ Napoleon” is ready, and if only one-tenth of the male population of Britain read it, and one copy serve fifty readers, 20,000 will be sold in six months.
Goodfellow. - I have been wonderfully fascinated by his Anecdotical Recollections in the last Quarterly. The anecdotes of Hutton and the Snails, and Adam Smith and the Beadle, are exquisite.
H. W.--He is the connecting link between M'Kenzie and Francis Jeffrey--the old and the new schools of Scottish genius. How can he call the former ultima Scotorum ?
Goodfellow. - As you say,—when he is actually writing a “ wee" story-book for a Scott beyond himself! Ha, ha! But your glass, if you please ;--we must get more ice put between the bowls. This is the anniversary of the day that the intelligence of the battle of Waterloo reached Glasgow.-Let us drink the healths of Wellington and Anglesea.
C. H. & H. W.-With pleasure. Hip-hip-hurra!
C. H.-Although the Duke has blundered on an Irish amendment we should never forget that we once all but worshipped him. It is folly to take revenge on him now, for our being over generous, which we begin to have a sneaking suspicion of.
H. W.-He should never have meddled with politics or party, good or bad, to give up the leisure he had nobly won.
c. H.--I had prejudices against him till I saw him-but that calm, serene, yet dignified countenance of his, convinced me that even when in error he believes he is right.
Goodfellow.—The very best--because not violent-although decided animadversions on his “clause " are in the “ Dumfries Courier." I wonder the other papers wont quote the sound remarks of Mr. M Diarmid, but only seize on his good-humoured contributions to Cuvier's Regne Animal.
H. W.-Why, many of these, besides being good stories, are contributions to Natural History, to which the mere discovery of a new fungus is poor drivelling. In Brewster's last Number there is a hit for him, where there is a curious paper on the classes of cryptogamic plants, which grow on the skin of the smallest insect !
Goodfellow.—Mercy on us !-By and bye we shall have two friends of mine botanically mad-drawing up a Flora Lousiann!
C. H.-In the same journal there is an abstract of one Stephen Atkinson's discoveries in searching for gold mines in Scotland, which would afford fine scope for Mac's felicities of style. The Londoner visited Dumfries too. Gentlemen--the ladies of that county, if you please.
H. W. & Goodfellow. -Miss Mary Heron, and the ladies of Dumfriesshire. Hip-hip-Hurra-hurra-hurra!!!
[The organ at this struck up “ O wat ye wha's in you
town,” and Charles rings the bell for another mutchkin of rum, to hide his blushes. I
TO CORRESPONDENTS. Charles Heron was out of town when a Michael, who was not an angel, made a debut and a fool of herself-but Solomon's self could not admire this daughter of Israel. Charles has gone off avowedly to squire bome his cousin, but really because he dare not trust himself within fifty miles of the fascination of one Foote,-and doats on consistency- and his cousin.
Printed by James Curll, 55, Bell-Street, and sold by all Booksellers.
No. XVIII.--SATURDAY, 14th JULY, 1827.
THE WATERING-PLACES. No. II.
Bumblane. I Am about to do a thing very unusual with me--modify my plan as first conceived—alter my resolution as origin. ally formed. Conscious that my friend Saveall's Repository of Good Things would be filled up long ere I could visit and delineate one-half of those delightful nooks of country, called the Watering-Places of the West, I had determined upon devoting myself exclusively to such of these as I could place in my Sketch Book, previous to the close of the season, without once turning aside, or being charmed from my exclusiveness of purpose, by Pitcaithly, Earn, or even the Banks of Allan Water, however lovely in nature, or celebrated in song. But gallantry and friendship at once assail my firmness—and I yield. The former appeals to me in the shape of a letter from the fascinating Miss Valeria Verdantique, who complains grievously of the giddiness and levity of the girls who frequent the Wells of Cromlis, and solicits me to animadvert upon their conduct; and the latter assails me in the form of an invitation from an old invalid friend, to spend a week with him at Dumblane, and assist in making war upon its ennui when there. Helensburgh, then, will not, this time, be on the leaf of my travelling portfolio which I turn over; for see, where, from the point of view, which is a gentle eminence, formed by masses of ruins, said to have been the cellars of some jolly monks, which their own decay, and the accumulations of time, with many pilgrim feet, have covered over with soil that gives a velvet sward of both emerald green and mossy texture as its guerdon for a repose hoe nor spade has never interfered with, on turning to the north, the solemn ruins of a venerable pile are seen, whose cruciform shape, lancet windows, venerable and hoary tower, and accompaniments of church-yard stones, which, round the base of its but
tresses, cover “many a mouldering heap," speak of an antiquity that is altogether alien from our idea of what goes to make up the smart, neat, and novel features we expect to meet with in a watering-place! Indeed, I fear that the air of old and solemn grandeurandrepose, which seems inseparable from, and appears to me one of the chief beauties of, Dumblane—for it is that we look upon-will be felt by many as its greatest drawback as a place of amusement, or even of recreation. It must be confessed it is a dull spot, in the fashionable sense of the term, and it would seem as if its manorial lord had resolved that it should ever remain so, and sleep on for ages in a state of venerable quiet, undisturbed by aught of the bustle attendant upon improvement, in any of its thousand shapes. But I am told the lady of Kinnoul is about to patronise the spot. Well, the Banks of the Lichel and the Allan may yet be embellished with gardens, and gemmed with the sweet retreats of domestic elegance; and the natural capabilities of the situation brought into use, affording as they do, if not space for squares, and crescents, and open walks, and Montpelier Rows, at least many admirable stances" for cottages with woodbined fronts, and gardens where the rose tree may be proud to flourish. If rumour be correct, it was from an act of fond devotion to a lady, on the part of the late proprietor of the estate, that it came into the possession of its present owner. Surely then the influence of the fair sex is no inappropriate means of turning the attention of its noble proprietor to embellishing a domain, which needs the culture of the hand of Taste and Wealth,—but could repay it.
Dumblane, seen from this station, appears one of the most irregular of Scotland's ragged little towns, and its houses as much out of symmetrical arrangement as are those masses of stone which, while they cumber the bed of the Allan, down whose waters the winter's storm has tossed them, are yet the cause of the wild and pleasing murmur of music, which its ripples dashing on their sides occasion. In sooth, it is a wild and broken stream, and at this spot has none of that sullen depth and "plum”-like gloom which one expects to see in a river or rivulet, where broken hearts have found a place to still their throbbings in. But these rocky lumps, however irregularly thrown, are convenient for stepping stones, and those houses so oddly placed, and streets, if streets they can be called, which strait are not, contain much of comfort and coziness, simplicity and honest worth. But here comes