No. 82.-VOL. II.

ON THE SCOTCH NOVELS.

THE most prolific writer of modern times is, certainly, the author of the Waverley Novels. These interesting publications, which far surpass any others of the same kind, will not only have much influence upon society, during the present period, but are destined, doubtless, by their great and peculiar merits, (which are alike acknowledged by the critic and the mere general reader,) to produce effects upon the people of a distant age, when the contemporary works of a sinfilar description will leave behind them no traces of their existence.

SATURDAY, AUGUST 23, 1823.

his studies have been prosecuted with as much vigour as ever.

3. Several of his poems, as the Lady of the Lake, and the Lord of the Isles, in particular, require only to be converted into prose to make parts of the series of Novels. The form of the stories is the same; the characters are similar; and the peculiar nature of the reflections which are made in these works after the recital of an affecting occurrence, is quite characteristic. The similarity between some of the poems of Sir Walter Scott, and the Novels, in almost every point of view in which they can be compared, has always appeared to me to be very I have often thought that it would, to a culti-strong evidence. The more a person reads of vated mind, whose foresight had been sharpened by the retrospective views of history, be an interesting subject of speculation, to try to discover the nature and extent of the influence which these singular productions are likely to produce upon society.

"

It is something like a national peculiarity in English authors that some of the best of them should publish anonymously the most elaborate works, which they had no intention to claim, and which have been traced to the writers only by accidental circumstances. Thus Addison's papers in the Spectator were Fairy favors which should last no longer than while the author was concealed." The Tale of a Tub was never directly acknowledged by Swift, and has been ascribed to him upon nothing better than circumstantial evidence. Of the admirable letters of Junius, the most studied composition in any language, the author declared that he the sole depository of his own secret and it should perish with him." To the long list of writers to whom my remark will apply we must add the Author of the Scotch Novels.

was

These publications have been ascribed to several persons well known in the literary world; but I have never, though I have sought them, discovered any plausible reasons for their being attributed to any other person than Sir Walter Scott. It is true that this opinion is not so prevalent as it was some time ago, and that it has been especially affected by the apparent contradiction of the Author in the introduction to the last Novel; but after an attentive examination of the denial to which I refer, some

readers will probably agree with me in think ing, that it is either an equivocation, or at least, one of those harmless forfeitures of veracity in which, under such circumstances, an Author may be excused for indulging, when he does so to check the intrusion of unauthorized

curiosity.

I shall briefly and hastily state some of the reasons which have induced me to suspect Sir Walter Scott of being the Author of the Waverley Novels.

1. Prior to the appearance of these works Sir Walter was the most industrious Author of his time, and not inferior to the great unknown in merit as well as in dispatch.

2. Since the publication of the Novels Sir Walter has written hardly any thing; though it is known in the circle of his acquaintance that

these works with the object of making out the identity of the author, the more, I am sure, he will be convinced of it.

4. Previous to the appearance of a new Novel, Sir Walter has been known to visit the scene to which it referred.

5. The small pieces of poetry thinly scattered over the Novels must alone awaken a strong suspicion in those who have been accustomed to the poems of Sir Walter Scott.

6. The Novels are printed at the same press, and issued by the same publishers, as the acknowledged works of Sir Walter Scott. This reason would be of little importance if it stood alone, but it deserves to be mentioned as it supports the general evidence.

7. The Novels contain many legal phrases, seldom known to persons not in the profession of the law, and allusions, which prove the author to be a profound antiquarian.

8. Sir Walter Scott has been used to write anonymously. A number of Reviews, Paul's Letters to his Kinsfolk, and I know not how many more things, have been publicly ascribed to him without contradiction.

9. The acquaintance of Sir Walter, who visit at his house, and have the best opportunities of observing his proceedings, and estimating his powers, are among the foremost to ascribe to him the anonymous Novels; and, on the contrary, the claim has, as far as I know, only been opposed by persons who are least likely, except from their presumption, to form an opinion upon the subject.

The reasons which I have stated for suspecting Sir Walter Scott of having written the Waverley Novels appear to me to be very strong; their strength is increased by the weakness of the objections which have been raised by those who have opposed the conclusion; and still more, by the paltry evidence, by which the claims, made for other persons, have been supported. Manchester.

ALPIN.

IN THE STYLE OF OSSIAN.

(Translated from the Dutch.)

Q.

LUMINARY of the stately Night! how mournfully risest thou in the East!-Hark! the storms shriek yet from afar-roaring waves ap

PRICE 3 d.

proach with devastation-dark clouds, with pallid borders edged, fly through the troubled sky. The birds have departed at the voice of the tempest-the night-owl has repaired to his ruined dwelling-horribly he howls from yonder shaking rock, and his screams are on the field.

By intervals, O Moon, shewest thou thy countenance, pale as death, through broken clouds.

New clouds raise their grey heads above the glimmering hills-thy unsteady rays fly yet over the bending grass-but slowly descends the darkness of the grave around me, and the spirits of the dead arise before mine eyes. Like meteors are their glittering forms on the hill of winds. Descend to your mansions, ye souls of pleasing Bards! until the dawn break into your darkness, and your voice be heard again over the sea, as the voice of breezes, whistling along the mossy rocks.-Sink softly on your low pillows of dust, ye ghosts of departed maidens ! until the rose again bloom on your cheeks, and the evening-gales, sighing from the rocks, play with your waving locks. Why should ye recall to me the years that are past, the days of our meeting on Lora?-When iny strength was like a beam of fire, when gladness dwelled in my bosom. Salgar! I see thee in thy strength; but my powers are broken. Thou art pleasant as ever, grey-haired Ullin! but my voice is become hoarse; it vanishes, as the son of the rock*, on the expanse of the ocean.-Solitary I remain, deserted by my friends; and no Bard comforts me with his soothing lay.—

SALGAR.

consolate, watchest thou on the mountain of Sorrowful, treadest thou over the heath: diswinds. The storm of autumn precedes thy steps; he carries thy plaints along with him. Spring of woe drowns his soft-whispering breath.finds thee lamenting on the hill, and thy voice Why is thy joy departed, O Alpin! why is thy glory like that of the dead?-Grief has whitened thy looks; thy voice is worn by lamentation.

ALPIN.

incloses my joy. The howling of winter inMy fame rests in the grave-the narrow house creases not my sorrow; spring refreshes me not not small is the cause of my tears. Return, ye with his dew. Listen to my distress, O Salgar! dark-brown years, which I have lost; restore to me the remembrance, of which ye have bereft me!

favoured maiden of Nossa.-I loved her in my Salgar! thine eyes have seen Minona, the youth: thou heardest, in other times, my song of her in the wood. Her eye was softer than the moon in a summer's night-on her cheek blossomed my happiness among roses. Her heart was as pure as the snow of the hill; her breast calm as the sea, after the departed storm. When the morning-sun rose in the sky, we left our huts, and the shades of the wood heard our tender conferences,

Once, the morn was lovely, as the countenance of Minona, as the rose after a dewy night.

• The Echo.

ANDREW LAURIE'S RETURN.

(Concluded from our last.)

"

I stood gazing on the grave, and on the living person who lay stretched beside it. He wore a coat of coarse, homespu n gray cloth, with gun-mouthed trowsers reaching midleg down; his feet were bare, and a grizzled lock or two escaping uncombed from beneath a broad and tattered bonnet, spoke something to me of age and weakness of brain. He lay holding a fresh dug-up skull between his hands, to which he was speaking with the familiarity of old acquaintance. Aha, Johnnie Wumble," said he, "ye are a quiet chield now, and a' since ye got on a timber coat, and witch Girzie laid ye in yere last linen. My certe, but ye lay quietly among the mools, wi' the red dewy gowans wagging bonnilie aboon ye. Ye had nae business to cut the tree where the wood-dove biggit, in the foot of my mother's yard,-and ye had nae right to ding down the auld kirk of Dalgarnock, and let in the wind and rain among the sparrows and bats, poor sackless things. Had ye behaved yeresel, the bedral wad nae bae daddit the mools out atween yere teeth with his airn spade, and bade ye lie still for a fool, and no rise till the Lord lifted ye. But ye raise for a' that. Ye think I did nae see ye sitting on the kirkyard dyke in the howe of hallowmas eve, wi' the deil's Rab of Rorie, and Jock Thuneram of Thrapplem, and a full score of uncoffined companions at your elbow. Ye had een like burning coals, teeth like barrows, and ye were singing a highland sang. Ah! loon to think to fright daft Symie Crosstree, that unlovesome gate. I'll throw thy skull into the Nith, and let the eels and the water adders have a new place of abode." And the water flashed as the skull descended into a neighbouring pool.

Daft Symie Crosstree-a kind hearted and quiet fool, who used to wander from house to house in the parish, and seek his food and clothes among those who were willing to befriend one of the most helpless and harmless of mankind,-daft Symie having disposed of the skull of ill Jock Wumble, proceeded to stretch himself beside a low grassy grave, marked with no stone of remembrance, and laying his arms over it, began to fondle and caress it as a mother caresses a baby. "Bonnie Lillie Lesley," he said, "seventeen simmers have ye lain in a maiden grave, and seventeen simmers since have I wandered the earth, and this is the first time I have had the grace to lie down aside ye. Ye were a blythe and a bonnie lass when I first began to roam, a poor demented lad, about the parish,-but I'm lass, and can mind,-when ane hunted the dogs on me, another drave me frae the door, and anither laid me in wet straw and damp sacks, saying aught was gude enough for a gowk,-what did my bonnie Lillie Lesley do? She gied me a warm supper

wise

now,

"Auld Lancie Luckpennié, Auld Lancie Luckpennie, Ilka Jockie has his Jennie,

And the deil has Lancie Luckpennie." Roused, no doubt, by a noise which would have roused all that was less than dead, an old man, slowly, and with many a groan, raised himself up from the side of a fresh ridged grave, and rubbing his eyes, and yawning like a death's head on a sepulchre,-the simile was at hand as all similes should be,-exclaimed, scandalized beyond endurance at the irreverent song of Symie-" Deil dibble yere daft bouk in an ebb grave, that a clocken ben may scratch it out, wherefore make ye that unsanctified din? Away wi' your carcase I say. I'll never earn a groat out of thee:-I bury all the wise fowk at aughteen pence the head, and the daft fowk into the bargain, and providence has been sae bountiful of intellect to the district, that I'll no make aboon saxpence a piece; hand owre head, I counted them a' by the register book yestreen,-it's a sad bargain, and gin there was mickle wisdom in the parish I would have it broken."

ye

can he make a deep and a narrow dwelling according to the word? Can he make sic a bonnie piece of subterranean architecture as thou? Ye should never make a grave for a piece of cauld common clay,-ye should keep yere spade for the use of gentles and dukes, and the like of Tam o' Campel an' me."

less pow. Ye are right, Symie; my last hames are just sey pieces of human skill, sae straight, sae deep, and sae tempting. There was the young portioner of Cairncross slipped a bit of gowd in my loof, when he saw what a bonnie subterranean edifice I had cut for his father, and tauld me it was a pleasure to look apon. The lad's an honest lad, though a thought given to drink and the lasses, and can judge of the merit of my wark as it made him laird of three gude mailens. But all go to Closeburn kirkyard now,-the young and auld, the rotten and ripe,-vanity lays them down, and may the fiend gie them a lifting."

"Truly," said Ichabod, " a wise word frae a wit

Hout, Ichabod School," said Symie, "your slip of paradise is no deserted yet. Ye have Douglasses, Kirkpatricks, and Hallidays, mony a ane,-a kind Menteath or twa,-and in the fulness of time ye'll have mae be praised for't,-and a lang line of Lauries."

A lang line of Lauries," said the grave-digger of Dalgarnock?" but the langest day will draw to night, and the lang line of Lauries maun have an end. And the mair's the pity, the mair's the pity; but wilfu' fowk, wilfu' fowk, ane gade east, and another went west,-ane gade to the north,-I wonder what he found there, and ane to the south, and left a fair patrimony, and the hope of having a pleasant naddin cut wi' my spade in the gowan knowe of Dalgarnock. They were a frank-handed race, but their race is run;-they were a liberal people, and good to beast and body, and they never forgot me at either bridal or burial,-a silver crown piece afore ever I wet a spade,-and on the marriage day a drop of drink, and the roast and the boiled, made it little waur than a dredgie. They were a liberal race. I would count ye some saxteen of them all side by side, ready to rise when heaven's will is,but they are sae covered wi' memorial stones, Symie, my lad, that the rising will be a kittle ceapter;-the Dargavels, and all the names that nae body cares for, will be up and through Enterkin afore a Laurie can rise." And the ancient man of Dalgarnock kirk-yard

"A Laurie risen!" said Symie, coming to my side, and examining me with a look of vacant consideration, -"Trouth, he's arisen, that I can avoach,--for he was twice killed in battle, thrice drowned in the sea, and sax times dead wi' fair straw death, or else there's nae truth in country clatter. But risen or not, it's my ain bonnie Andrew Laurie. Ah, Andrew, my man, what have ye made of Whitefoot, and Whaupie, and the pet hawk?-and how did ye live without me? -ye would not find a daft lad in every country to do ye a good turn, there's no the like of me at every dyke bock. Wherefore d'ye no speak? have ye been deaf, as well as dead? and that's say likely, for there was my ain grandame, when she went to the kirk-hole, and ill Bauldy Beattie basted me wi' his strap, I ran and tauld her on't, and she ne'er minded her poor bairy, but lay as quiet as the mools aboon her."

To the grave digger of the old kirkyard of Dalgar-stept upon a gravestone, looked round, and began to nock, Symie advanced with a look of vacant stupidity. count with his finger the graves of my ancestors. All the arch and somewhat mischievous alertness of his Saxteen beds all in a row," he said, "wi' the green glance was gone, and his face seemed changed into a grass waving aboon them, and one gaping there for the mere lamp of unquickened clay. "Gude day, gude coming morsel,-a bonnie sight." I stept upon another day, Ichabod School," said Symie, " hae dug a gravestone, and surveyed the line of graves; Ichabod braw hole,-ye make the house, and leave death to saw me for the first time, and said in a tone more of find a tenant ;-this sair cough that's gone raging among surprise than pleasure, "Grace guide us, here's ae us wise fowk of Dalgarnock will send monie a siller Laurie risen afore another's well ready to lay i' the aughteen-pennie, and dredgie drink thy road." Siller grave." pennies, said ye, gowk," quoth Ichabod School, "siller seldom comes my road;-none but daft fowk die, and wise fowk live for ever. Save when a Laurie or a Menteath, grace be wi' them, take it into their head to oblige ane wi' a wise person's funeral, I never can clap a creditable body wi' my spade, and bid the gowans wag o'er a sark-ful of sensible clay. This wearyfon marriage of the gude maiden parish of Dalgarnock wi' the captious carle Closeburn, vexes ane sair,- -sorrow be wi' them that laid the twa thegither. Then there's the dinging down of the bonnie auld kirk, where monie a fair face sat, and monie a lang psalm was sung; and casting out the ancient name of Dalgarnock frae 'mong the parishes of Nithsdale, just as if it had nae as sweet a sound as Closeburn, or Kirkmahoe,—or warse than a Wampuray,—a name fit to make a dead dog bark. But let the name gang, a name's but a sough and a sound,-and let the kirk tumble, it was but timmer and stanes,-but wha can Whisht, ye born fool," said Ichabod, "this is ane of the queer gentlemen who never love a house till endare, think ye, to see the auld world worthies of the riggings off't,-a tree, till its dead i' the top and the land haurled awa feet foremost, and a' to grace the rotten i' the heart,new burial ground of Closeburn, an' a plague till't,— it for fear it falls. I ken them bravely. Give them -nor a kirk, till the howlets forboo can it no be content wi' devouring the name of the three or four rusty coffin nails, and an auld bane, and green and gladsome nook of Dalgarnock, but it maun the tram of a wheelbarrow, and a worm-eaten quaigh, wile away the bouks of douce and sponsible fowk; as and the snout of a steel bonnet, and an auld parritch if our ane auld sunny knowe were nae like a slip of spurtle, and a lang stane, wi' twa or three scratches the garden o' paradise compared with the new calf-upon it, and they'll make a book as big as Boston's ward of Closeburn,-a barren top and a sour bottom." Fourfold State, wi' a hundred pictures o' a' the straps, "And then," said Symie, "what is the parish gardener of Closeburn compared to our Ichabod School? and straes, and knocking stanes in the parish. This is ane of them."

"

"Ah! Andrew Laurie, man," said Symie, d'ye mind how ye hunted me to the top of the Hazelbrae, and made me lie all night among the beather, for fear of your dog Whitefoot? But then ye gied me two apples and a saxpence at Thornhill fair,-sae lay that and that together,-kiudness clears a' scores wi' daft Symie. And then, man, d'ye mind how ye put a living burchin in the ae meal powk, and a howlet i' the tither, and sent me crying round the parish, fidum, father, fidum, our cat has kittled two magpies and a moudie?' Nae act of kindness cleared that score,sae take ye that, Andrew Laurie, for what ye did to me lang syne." And stooping suddenly to the ground, and snatching up the remains of a skull, he hurled it at my head and this unexpected missile narrowly

missed the mark. I thought if Symie visited every

little deed of early mischief upon me, I was in a fair way of being stoned to death, so I threw him a crownpiece; which he caught as it flew. When he saw it was silver he gave a leap, then ran round like a pair of yarn windles, and shouted out, "Goodsooth, Symie Crosstree, it's a crown-piece,-it shall work while I sleep,-It came frae the hand of a Lanrie,—a frank free hand.-the same hand that chaced me wi' stones from the top of Topstarvet down to the mains of Closeburn, and made me climb into the top of Menteath's

oak, where I sat till it took six men and three ladders to bring me down again. Nae kindness ever salved that sair,-sae take ye that, Andrew Laurie, ye ken what ye did to me lang syne;" and he threw a shankbone, with a bitterness which my late present gave me. no reason to expect, and I found some trouble in eluding it.

"I'd brain ye wi' my spade, gowk," said the gravedigger, "if it werena I would have your grave to howk gratis, and that for misusing a man wi' a frank hand, and siller in his pouch. And you, sir, wha throw away mair coin on a coof than I would dig ye three full size graves for, d'ye no see that he's half knave and fu' fool, wi' as much cunning as will cause him to throw dead men's banes at you, while ye throw siller at him. But take ane's counsel, who never saw a penny of your coin, and gang and sit down aside the

burial bread and wine, there where they stand. Daft Symie respects burial drink, when he respects nothing else." I seated myself as Ichabod advised, and Symie came quietly and sat down beside me.

The spot where I sat was full of summer beauty and sanctity, but the desolation of the kirk, and the home of my youth, pressed upon my heart. I thought on the sabbath mornings when I bad stood by the gate, and seen all the way to the house of God moving with the grave, the beautiful, and the young,-when I beheld the seats thronged, and many fair eyes glancing modestly to and ro, and that interchange of silent and holy greeting which passes among friends before worship begins. I thought too on those who bore my name, and shared kindred blood with me; and I saw the graves of many I loved growing green beside me, each headed by a memorial stone. And I said in my heart, of the seven Lauries whom I left, lo! six are sleeping there, and as I looked I thought on the new dug grave, and I saw it was for a tall person; and as my eyes dwelt npou it they filled with tears, and my heart throbbed, and I would fain have gone away but I had not the power.

Ichabod now came to my side," Deil mend their speed," said he, bere am I standing as stiff wi' cauld as a crutch, and as hungry as the grave at a green yule, but they're near now, I hear the neighing of their borses." Smie started to his feet, and laying down his ear to the earth, and listening for a moment, be clapped his hands and shouted out, "Oh! the burial bits, the burial hits,-dads of bread and

touts of wine. I wish other sax would die Men are far kinder to poor demented Symie when they have their timmer top coats on, than when they si: at the board head. A piece of sour bread, and a drop of wynted milk, from the living,-bat waughts of red wine, and wamefuls of white cake, from the dead. I

can gang fasting and sorrowfa hame frae a reeking house, but frae the kirkyard I have to grope my way, -and the wine has whomeled me owre a grave, and left me to cool, and come to myself among the morn

ing dew. Ob! the burial bits,--the burial bits,-dads of bread, and touts of wine. Yonder he comes, yon

der he comes, in his braw black chest, with siller whirlies on the sides, and the parish cloak trailing o'er him. Well may he bruik the new."

I stood up and saw a long train of horsemen descending the western bank of the river, and approaching to Dalgarnock kirkyard, by a narrow, and woody, and unfrequented way. They were all dressed in black, and riding slowly and mournfully along. In the middle of the line of horsemen two rode abreast, bearing a coffin across the shoulders of their horses, over which a mort-cloth was thrown, which reached nigh the ground. They passed the river, and halting at the little gate, bore the coffin to the brink of the grave beside where I stood, and all gathering around gazed mournfully on it for a minute's space or more, in silence so intense, that I thought the very throbbings of my heart were audible. At length a very old man removed his hat. smoothed down a few white hairs which time had left about his temples, and looked in the grave, and in the faces of his companions, till the tears started in his eyes. As he looked round he saw me, he eyed me for a little space, and said, "His dying words are come to pass, one has come from a far land, who will lay his head in the grave,-never, be said, would the head of one of his blood be laid low in Dalgarnock, but the hand of one of his name would lay it, and his words are come to pass."-And he came and took me by the band, and leading me to the head of the grave, said, Mine old eyes deceive me much if thou art not Andrew Laurie,-stand there," and he placed the silken cords of the coffin in my hands, which the love of some antique mind had wreathed with flowers. All eyes were turned on me, my eyes wandered from face to face,-I dreaded to speak, and the same dread seemed visible in every one.

The old man came forward, and said,-"Let us not lay in the grave, with superstitious rites and observances, one of the kindest, and gentlest, and simplest spirits which ever breathed among us. Devout him

self, and one who walked in the austere meekness of the pure Scottish kirk, we should insult him were we with uplifted hands, with beads held down, and with smooth words, and studied sentences, to offer up sup

to say over the clay mansion, out of which the immortal spirit has passed; and the wisest man's words are but folly compared to those of this poor simple fool."

THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

Land of my Fathers, dearer to my soul
Than all the teeming fruitfulness of climes
Or wealth of nations, when stern death shall take
Me to himself, may I in slumber rest
Within thy firm embrace.
ANON.

I Do not know any thing which takes hold of the powers of man with a stronger grasp than reflection, when he visits the scenes of his childhood endeared by fond recollection, and tender hope. They recall the days of other years, when the wanderer was wont to traverse over every brake, and pry into every secret inclosure; when the old mansion resounded with the voices of parents and friends; and when the hum of the school boy alone disturbed their morning's

repose.

I have now, after an absence of ten years, returned to my native village; but, alas! where

are those scenes which were once so familiar to me? where is my father's house, the pleasure grounds, and the little garden in which the first years of my infancy were spent?-they are no where to be found! My parents are both dead -the old sexton has pointed out their graves;and my brother-the same sod which covers my parents rests upon him! My sister has long since left the old hamlet; and I, the only one of our family remaining, wander, as it were, a stranger, and an outcast from the place of my birth!

During the month which has now elapsed since my arrival, I have found but one of my old friends, the grey-headed sexton of our pa rish church. Poor old man, he is not a whit changed since the days when he used to occupy his accustomed seat in the corner of our kitchen, when placed in the high arm-chair he drank the nut-brown ale and puffed his frequently replenished pipe, excepting that his hairs are grown whiter, and his face seems reduced into a smaller compass! My school companions are all dead, saving one, and he, after being buffetted for years, a mere football for Fortune to vent her spleen upon, has left his birth place, and, like myself, tired of the world, sought out a remote corner of the globe in which to pass a few in ease and tranquillity.

plication for him. Shall we pour a prayer less than inspired over him who so often poured over others the warm and unsolicited overflowings of a tender heart and a gifted mind? Afar from me be all the vanity of, such devotion, and in a homely way will 1 speak of a homely heart. There he lies, who for seventy years never gave a pious heart pain, nor denied an honest man's request, he thatched the roof of the widow's house,--be put food between the lips of the orphan, his door stood ever to the wall, that the needy might enter, and at his hearth was found the soldier's wife and her helpless children. He was not vain of bis influence among men, nor was he proud of his wisdom, -his wit was kind and pleasant,-his humour was chaste and free,-and be read a song sweeter than others could sing it. His sayings became proverbs, My first visit was to the house of one with and his proverbs are laws in the land. He was proud whom I once lived in the dearest ties of friendship, of his descent,—and he said none of his blood or bis-Those indeed were happy days, oh years of name ever begged bread. The beggar will bless his house as he passes, though the bearth shall be cold and the table unfurnished. He goes where all shall go,-but he goes blessed,-for him the grey headed and the wise weep, and the fool sheds tears.'

The old man had elevated his hands in fervour.-his

voice was waxing melodious.-a flush was coming over bis brow-matter bold and figurative was flowing in, and he was about to pour out one of those simple and affecting characteristic prayers which I have heard uneducated men utter over the dead, when he was suddenly interrupted. Poor demented Symie, with tears streaming down his cheeks, burst through the band of mourners, leaped into the grave, and cried out with a voice of unsurpassable agony, "Oh! Luke Laurie, Luke Lanrie,-I will be buried for thee." The old man looked on him for a moment, dropped his hands, and said, "Thus men may know when the righteous and the kind-hearted die. Andrew Laurie, there lies thine uncle,-long he looked for thy return; the last look he gave was with the hope of seeing thee,-the last wish he uttered was that thou mightest lay his old white head in the grave, and he died in the belief

that all this would come to pass. Now let us lay him in the dust. All has been said that Christians ought

years

my youth, could ye but return, how differently would I spend ye! how-but hold, time, time bears us down its stream, let me look forward, and smooth the rough path through which I am gliding fast into Eternity, and not waste the precious moments in bubbles, which must surey burst and sink me under their weak support. Leoline was my friend, and his sister Mary, on her had I fixed my affections, and well do I remember when we parted exchanging our mu tual vows; but Fate prevented their completion! When I visited the cottage an old domestic who had often nursed me opened the door, and to my enquiries for my friend told me-and a tear, in spite of her endeavours to prevent it, showed itself,-that he was dead-and that only a few weeks before!

The old nurse knew me not, time had wrought such a change that even she who had so often tended me, had forgotten my

features.

How the tears ran down her furrowed cheeks when I announced myself, and she beheld him on whom her late master had so often called in

his illness. The poor creature led me as it were instinctively to the room in which the once lovely Mary was reclining. But how changed! the glow of health was flown-that figure which had a few years before atttracted the general gaze was reduced beneath anxiety and sorrowand her features were care-worn and emaciated. She was seated, or rather reclining on a couch, which stood opposite to a window commanding an extensive view over a delightful lawn, at the extremity of which rambled the babbling brook which was shaded by the broadleaved sycamore and spreading elm-the flowering branches of a luxuriant woodbine, which covered the front of the cottage, had found their way into the room through the half-opened window, and mingled sweet perfume in the breeze of evening.

As I advanced to behold those features which were so altered since I last gazed upon them, she cast a glance upon me which I first inter preted as a recognition, but was soon undeceived by her gently enquiring my name.

Vain would be any attempt to picture our feelings, or to pourtray the scene which took place when my name was announced. I shall pass it over; but the struggles of nature against the pain which tortured my beloved were too strong for her, and she fainted in my arms. The old servant soon removed her to her chamber, and I reluctantly bade "Good night," with a promise to return early in the morning.

Need I say that scarcely had Aurora tinged the mountains, nor had the lark arose to offer its orisons, when I was hastening towards the habitation of sickness, nay of loveliness-of perfection-of every thing dear in this world. The lamp was not yet extinguished, and I could discover by its beams several forms passing to and fro in the chamber of the invalid. With a tremulous and unsteady hand I lifted the knocker, which was soon answered by the old domestic, who welcomed me with a heavy countenance. I could but too well perceive the news that was detained, I anticipated, she was indeed alive, but her spirit seemed to waver betwixt heaven and earth, though still clinging to its frail tenement. After taking a little refreshment I was admitted into her chamber, and there found the lovely Mary even more beautiful than I had fancied her before. I began to hope, to feel that nature might sustain itself a little longer, but as I urged the idea she only more forcibly represented the impossibility of recovery.

The room in which we then were looked to. wards the village church, and she kept her eyes intently fixed upon this prominent object. Ére I had sat long, the passing bell reverberated along the lawn and brought its sound to our ears. The knell seemed to ring ominously at such a period, and it had its effect. Finding conversation tedious, when the physician made his appearance I retired, and bade a temporary farewell, promising the next morning to revisit the gentle Mary. I took a circuitous route for my road home, and lingered among the ruins of my Father's house; never was devastation more complete. With some difficulty I discovered the spot on which the small library once stood, and in which I took a last farewell of my aged parent. Well do I remember the affectionate distress of the old man, as the tears ran down his wrinkled face, and he in vain endeavoured to say "Farewell." I left him before the parting word escaped his lips. As I sat upon the wall which then in part fenced our garden, I allowed my thoughts to wander to past time, and to events, which though they took place

some years since, appeared to my memory as vivid as when I actually engaged in them. Shortly the sweet warblings of a flute sounded on my ear, and as the tones grew louder, I exclaimed with the Poet:

"If music be the food of love play on."

But the transport into which this melody had carried me, broke the spell, and the cause of these delightful feelings was removed. As I gazed upon the spot whence the notes arose, I observed the figure of a youth reflected upon a small stream, along which he wandered; but ere I could reach the spot where he stood, he had vanished, and was lost to my sight in the shadow of the trees which surrounded the wall where I had taken my seat.

cy

The shades of evening had now deeply set in, and the cold breeze warned me that the time to seek repose was at hand. I obeyed, and returned to the house where I had fixed a temporary abode. My sleep was heavy, and a deep oppression hung upon me during the night; frequently did I awake with a difficulty of breathing, and frightful dreams hurried my fanday was to me an hour of relief, and I then into the most painful excess. The break of looked to the approaching time when I should again behold the suffering Mary. There was a heaviness in the atmosphere, and I endured a walk; the mist still hung upon the valley, and considerable depression of spirits during my the blades of grass shone luxuriantly as they lay tipped with dew beneath the rays of a rising sun.

virtue, and awake to the nicest touches of maternal sensibility, the independence of her sons, exposed by their very opulence to all the variety of temptation, must have been extremely alarming; even if their dispositions had appeared, at their outset, to be the most happy and promising. But what must have been her anxiety, what her terrors, when all Florence soon distinguished them as foremost among the profligate and abandoned. In vain did she repeat the most earnest expostulations; in vain have recourse to entreaties, or give vent to her agony in tears. Her voice was no longer heard; nor did the affecting effusions of maternal grief make the slightest impression. Her eldest son continued at Florence, while the younger left that

city, in order to make the tour of Italy.

One evening, this disconsolate mother being alone, now lost in thought, and now weeping at the recollec

tion of the licentiousness of her sons, she was surprised on a sudden, with the appearance of a stranger, with a bloody sword, with looks of horror and distraction in his countenance. Terrified at this unexpected and frightful object, she uttered a loud scream and rushed out of the room. The stranger hastily followed her and threw himself at her feet; "Oh! madam" said he pity an unfortunate man." "Who are you," exclaimed the affrighted Theresa. "I am the most But deign to listen to my unhappy story. I am a Roman. wretched of human beings. this city two days, and having finished the business

"

I have been in

which brought me hither, I was going to my inn, in order to prepare for my departure, when a person passing by me, kicked me with great brutality. On insult to outrage. On resenting this treatment be grew remonstrating with him against this incivility, he added

Permit me to take refuge

more abusive than before, and threatened me with such insolence that I could no longer contain myself. I drew my sword: he drew his, and in an instant fell, pierced by my first thrust. Heaven can witness my grief at this involuntary murder. Distracted, scarce sensible of what I did, not knowing whither to fly, I door of which I found accidentally open. Oh! madam, have ventured to seek an asylum in your house, the pity an unfortunate man. here till the pursuit is over, and the darkness of the night may allow me to retire with safety. At this recital the Lady trembled with horror. An unaccountable presentiment filled her mind with a thousand cruel apprehensions. Nevertheless, attentive only to the impulse of compassion, she conducted the stranger to a closet, in which she carefully concealed him. forebodings of this unfortunate mother were, alas! but too well founded. In a little time, she was again struck by a sudden bustle and noise. Pale and trem

I found the door open, and heard a noise unusual in the dwelling of the sick; but little did I anticipate the fatal news. The curtain of life was drawn for ever-the short scene of her pilgrimage was terminated! Painful were my feelings as I gazed upon the remains of all that was once lovely and happy: happier far was she then, but her features were insensible to joy, and those eyes which were once wont to flash so brightly were closed for ever! The old and faithful domestic gave me a 'paper in Mary's hand-writing: she had penned it immediately after my departure the preceding evening, and scarcely was the task completed when she fell into a deep sleep; it was her last long and untroubled! The paper contained the following bling, she hastened to the hall, and there beheld (what lines:

Another pilgrim is gone home

To his lone dwelling-house, the tomb;
Another soul has wing'd its way
From the small tenement of clay;
For, hark! the sound o'er yonder dell,-
It is the awful passing bell!

A few short hours, and I shall be
Wrapt in a like Eternity;

A few short hours and I must fall
Beneath the common lot of all;
And you mayhap shall hear my knell
Toll'd by you awful passing bell!
Then let me 'neath yon tree be laid,
My grave be covered by its shade,
But let no tomb or stone proclaim
The resting wanderer's style or uame;
The last, the parting sad farewell,

Mayhap you'll sigh with yonder bell!

She now rests beneath the weeping willow in the corner of our church-yard;-the yew shall grow over her grave, and the white rose shall blow upon her ashes, but she excels it in purity, In heaven is her resting place! Liverpool.

IGNOTO.

THE FLORENTINE MOTHER,-A TALE. Theresa Balducca, a lady of a noble Florentine family, had not been long a widow, before she beheld her two sons, the inheritors of an ample patrimony, independent of her. To a mother endued with every

The

a sight for a mother!) her eldest son brought before her, pierced by a deep wound in his breast, and weltering in his blood. She uttered a wild and dreadful shriek. Her son, almost lifeless, perceiving himself just expiring, made a last effort and turning to his mother, Alas! said he, "you behold in me an example of the justice of heaven. I have deserved my fate. Let my death serve at least as a warning to my brother. If the person who killed me is apprehended, I entreat you to undertake his defence. O my mother! he is innocent, I alone am the aggressor. O my mother! I am dying, can yon forgive me?" "Heaven knows I forgive thee my child," sobbed his unhappy parent. A ray of joy for a moment beamed upon the countenance of the wretched youth, but was immediately succeeded by the pallid bue of despair. Large drops of sweat rolled down his cheeks; he tried to speak but could not; his lips quivered, a deep groan burst from him, and he breathed his last. The unhappy mother sunk senseless on the body. Her attendants at last forced her from the bloody corpse; uncertain, however, for a long time, whether she were yet living. It was with the greatest difficulty she was recovered. When she was brought to herself, her grief must have been fatal, had not nature found relief in a flood of. tears. She kept calling every moment for her son; she repeatedly insisted upon seeing him again; and it was not without violence that she was removed from the mournful scene.

What in the mean time must have been the grief and consternation of the young stranger, who, from the place of his concealment, beard the whole tragical