Scripture was in reality cotton fabric, as Mr. M'Culloch shows that the "Manchester cottons" mentioned in old works were woollen. Mr. Pollock, the gifted author of "The Course of Time," which your friend, Sir John Sinclair, so highly praised, is about to proceed to Italy for the recovery of his health. He was in town this week, but was little seen; for the magnates of our city expend too much on front doors, showy side-boards, and state parties, to have any real daily dinner-giving hospitality. -The grouse Tom sent, were capital, and of the true moorland gusto, as much so indeed as if they had come from Strathnaver, and without the tame flavour of Eaglesham or Mearns.-Believe me, dear Uncle, C. HERON. yours affectionately,

THE LAY OF THE HOMELESS.

["The Algemeine Zeitung, under date of Switzerland, July 24, furnishes a painful account of a class of persons called the Heimathlosen, whose case has occupied the attention of the Swiss Diet. The meaning of the term by which they are distinguished, is 'Homeless,' and the parties so described are individuals who have no legal settlement in any of the cantons, and cannot settle any where, but are compelled to lead a vagabond life. We are sorry to learn that the late discussion of their claims has led to no favourable result; but we cannot help feeling that the condition of these 'homeless' sufferers, in that land once so celebrated for the enthusiasm of its people for liberty, affords matter not unworthy of the serious consideration of the philsopher."-London Courier, Aug. 1827.]

The Switzer loves the mountain land
For which his fathers bled;
He loves the very grassless rock,
With Austrian blood once red.

But dearer is his goat-herd's track,
Upon the verdant hill;

And his cot, howe'er unknown to song,
Is dearer to him still.

Yet Switzer though our hearts and hands,
Our blood though flowing free,

Oh! must we turn to other lands
Where there no mountains be!
The happy love one favourite spot-
Alas! the outcast knows it not!
And dear's the nook that holds a home:

The Heimathlosen's doomed to roam!

Ours is the tongue that shouted free,
Upon Montgarten's peak;

And yet the self same mountain words
Our children's children speak.
We stride with still the lofty pace

Of freemen past a slave;

Our brows as high, our eyes as bright,

Our hearts, we trust, as brave

As those from whom, like you, we've sprung,
Whose names, like you, we bear,
Whose notes of triumph we have sung,
Whose broad-swords yet we wear;

Our fathers bled when Gessler fell,
Our ancestors have fought with Tell;
For this you have your quiet home,
Ah! must the Heimathlosen roam!
Your kine feed on the Alps' green side,
Or low far down the vale;

Your cottage sends its morning smoke
To heaven with grateful tale.
The fruits are at your doorway path,
The flowers clasp round your sill,
The mountain yields its pulse and pine,
Your barn to build and fill.

Your little ones climb to the latch

When stealing out to play,

Or seek the sheltering eave of thatch,

When closed their too brief day:

Where cropped our goats, where blazed our fire, Where danced our brats in rain and mire,

To-day, may ne'er once more be done,

The Heimathlosen home has none !
Oh! shame upon the Switzer law;
Oh! shame upon the land

That neither shields nor shelters those
Whose name's their only brand!
Ye Burghers! there is room enough
Upon Mont Blanc's broad breast
To denizen ten thousand more
Than seek a place of rest.

But if there be not, there are lakes,
Whose waters broad and deep

Could hide what vengeance yet may work

On you who sleekly sleep.

Make room! make room! the world is wide!

There's space for peace as well as pride!

But for a resting-place we come ;

The Heimathlosen will be home!

SONNET,

WRITTEN IN ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL.

Where Gothic archings clasp the lofty space
Within their bendings with a calm embrace,
Rearing their solemn lightness-I have knelt
With tremulous wonder, and have deeply felt
That awe which portals' adorations thrill,

Yet is less noble; but beneath this dome

THAT, not less solemn, doth my bosom fill!
Yet here no chill of fear doth slowly come,
Where noblest thought 's embalmed by highest skill
Into immortal forms of classic grace.

In the dim aisle the penitent may kneel,

The tear of anguish may bedew the Choir, But, O! when anthems round these pillars peal, My worship's fonder, and my love is higher.

BY THE HOME OF MY YOUTH.

By the home of my youth like a vision I past,

But its scenes were all desert and bare;

And the loud howling storm, and the chill wintry blast,
Blew wild as the voice of Despair.

Ah! how altered each scene since my boyhood's wild prime,
Scarce their features I now recognise;

For the grim march of Ruin, and proud step of Time,
And Decay-each has made them his prize.

Those broad branching trees, where, a light-hearted boy,
I have oft sought a shelter and shade,

And gambolled beneath, in the fulness of joy,

In the dust whence they sprang low are laid.

E'en that one, which the stern hand of Time long had spared, 'Twas the monarch of all those around,

Whose summit to climb, oft in childhood I dared,

Is low with the rest on the ground.

So the love which beneath their green boughs first awoke,
And the vows that were pledged by its side,

Have passed like a dream—or have bent or have broke,
And are laid on the altar of Pride!

* The big tree.

PERCIVAL POTTS.

The Maximist. No. VI.

"Full of wise saws and modern instances."

Nobody despises facility in any accomplishment, except those who feel that they can never attain it-as none panegyrise simplicity of style like those who can never think beyond the line they are transcribing:-the bald-headed allege that curled hair is inelegant.

When travelling, never trust to your being called in the morning by" Boots," or any other domestic, unless you want to lose your place in the coach or boat, or, what is as bad, be within one minute's time of doing so.

Gentlemen with large feet ought to wear that description of trousers described by the names of two towns in France, that they may be either half hidden or apparently diminished by the effect of

contrast.

Check shirts are a fine, free, easy, and comfortable costume; but to carry them under a black coat and waistcoat is to be as absurd as the king of the Sandwich Islands, who wears a general's uniform, but insists on going barefooted.

When a sarcasm is indirectly aimed at you, such as a sneer at those of your profession, with an air that means an individual application, the best way to disarm it is, to coincide in its justice, and follow up its bitterness.

A love of parade, or of extravagant effect, is often mistaken for originality of mind, although the exhibition of it is the best evidence that a man can furnish of his being really destitute of that; just as laboriously to eulogise virtue is presumptive proof that you speak disinterestedly in its praise.

Next to the man who never hits upon a mischance is he who can most immediately apply a remedy for one.

All men originally love external nature.

Indifference to its

beauties is but the effect of exclusion from their observation.

It is a pity to spoil the pleasure one might receive from contemplating a landscape, by perpetually asking whether the effect is happy, the shadows fine, and if it would make a good picture?

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

We, Solomon Saveall, are a bachelor, and therefore it is too much to expect that we should insert a song ridiculing the fraternity.-The very same answer that we gave last week to " Arcanam" is suitable to "A. R." and the piece with the motto from Waller.-If the writer of the friendly letter without a signature knew experimentally the variety of tastes we have to cater for, he would not wonder at the inequalities in our subject matter.The beautiful and thrilling lines of "Z." shall find a place in their fittest Album-our heart of hearts.

Printed by James Curll, 55, Bell-Street, and sold by all Booksellers. PRICE THREEPENCE.

THE ANT.

No. XXIV.-SATURDAY, 1st SEPTEMBER, 1827.

Original.

TIT FOR TAT; OR, THE COQUETTE CURED, An Anecdotical Recollection.

Mr. SAVEALL, I have the ground-work of a good story, and a long one; yet possess firmness enough to compress my materials into an anecdote, judging that the excellent moral which I seek practically to inculcate will have the more effect the sooner it is got at. Well, then: I was once a young fellow, and am as yet but a middle-aged one, and although caring less about the smiles of the fair than formerly, yet not wholly insensible to them. It matters little, then, whether it was fifteen years or fifteen months ago that I met with a lady whom I always admitted to be pretty, but knew to be pert-a townswoman, for beyond seventeen, and as well known to me as a hundred rencounters could make her-where, think you? -on board that little steam-boat which acts as a tender to its more ' Majestic" brother, and carries passengers from the pier head to the larger vessel in the Mersey. As it moved into the stream, I was not disagreeably surprised, even at my age, at feeling a fair hand clasp my wrist, and seeing a familiar, if sun-burnt, countenance, imploringly bend its gaze on mine. The agitated Gianetta-for so I shall Italianise her name-seeing a known face among strangers, hesitated not to implore its owner to procure the stoppage of the boat until her brother should arrive, else he would lose his passage, and she her guardian. To effect this was a task which the profusion of thanks it called forth well enough repaid. We got under way-and the lady got sick; but not until her black eyes and Doric liveliness had induced a young Cheshire squire to assume the amiable. She reposed on his upper Benjamin-and he in the assurance of a harmless flirtation. Recovered, she was all that was engaging and— forgetful;-I need not say to whom. The brother was a