voters, their condition was instantly lowered. The eagerness of the landlord to have numerous voters, split their farms into the smallest portions that could support life. It was enough for the landlord that he could go to the hustings with a mob of beggars at his heels. From this increase of beggary, riot followed; until Ireland is at this hour the seat of poverty, contagion, ignorance, and bloodshed.

This franchise was fatal to the Irish Parliament; for it rendered the Union a matter of stern necessity. Where the election was by the head, the Protestant property, intelligence, and allegiance, must have been overwhelmed by the Catholic multitude. The Parlia ment must have, long before this, become altogether Romanist; and the result must have been a division of the empire, or a furious and doubtful civil war. Nothing can be more fantastic than to suppose that the power of voting for members of Parliament is a natural right. It is totally conventional—a British man has as natural right to vote in a corporation or in the Cabinet, as to vote at the hustings. It is a privilege, and, like all privileges, must be obtained by some equivalent. Property, apprenticeship, public honours, &c., are its sources; and for it they must be visited. This privilege conceded to the English Romanists may be less formidable from their inferiority of number; but a new stimulant is now given to proselytism-the eyes of ambitious men will be turned on this new material of power-demands inconsistent with the Constitution will be made by regular clients of Catholic popularity; and freedom and religion may have yet to tremble at the consequence of this hazardous donative. The English Catholics, scarcely more than three thousand thirty years ago, are now upwards of forty thousand; an enormous increase, which betrays the vigour of proselytism in an unexampled degree.

The Session died away in an inquiry into the conduct of the Sheriff of Dublin, who had been charged with returning a packed jury, on the trial of the Orangemen for a riot at the theatre. A key to this singular and ineffective proceeding may be discoverable in the disapprobation fixed on the conduct of Mr Plunket. It probably occurred to this

practised politician, that the prosecution of the Sheriff might serve, at least as well as his own censure by the House and the country, to attract popular attention. In the debate on Mr Brownlow's motion of censure, the Minister interfered, and recommended that the House should not come to a vote, "simply that neither party might have a triumph." The suggestion was acted upon, and Plunket's conduct was left as it was found.

Parliament grew sick of inquiries into the squabbles of aldermen and attorneys-Irish though they were;— the inquiry languished, became profitless, ridiculous, and dropped-leaving the Sheriff to return in triumph to his corporation dinners, the Dublin Alderman, King, to boast of having baffled the House, and the Irish AttorneyGeneral to dream over the equal absurdity of Orangeman and Catholic, the harshness of ex officio informations, and the easy loss of a lawyer's popularity.

Some episodes and interludes lightened the heavier business of the closing Session. The King's most munificent gift of his late Majesty's lib rary to the nation, brought up Lord Ellenborough from his retreat, since the failure of his furious measure of legislatorial foolery, the Marriage Act. His Lordship curiously maintained that the King had no right to give away his own, and that he must keep his gifts to himself, on pain of offending Lord Ellenborough's opinion of the Constitution. The House laughed at the discovery, had the courage to accept of this obnoxious and unconstitutional present of books and MSS.; and even went the daring length of transferring it to the keeping of the British Museum. To close this sketch with the most trivial and the most amusing incident of the year, Mr Canning, in one of the debates on the Catholic question, gave Brougham the Lie! with a directness, promptitude, and effect, unequalled among the castigations of the House. It gagged the unfortunate orator for the night, and for the season. Mr M'Kerril had before silenced him out of doors; he is now shut up from the habitual indulgence of his tongue within, and must henceforth be as miserable as insolence and impotence can make him.

DEAR SIR CHRISTY, You will remember, that, when you and I parted last at Ambrose's, the following dialogue passed between us. Perhaps you may have forgot; but it was just at the head of the narrow entry, immediately under the door of that celebrated tavern, that it took place; and, at the time when it began, we were standing with our backs toward each other, in what I would have called, had I been writing poetry, a moveless attitude.

"Mr Hogg, what is the reason that you write to me so seldom ?”

"Faith, man, it's because I hae naething to write about."

"Nothing to write about? For shame! how can you say so? Have you not the boundless phenomena of nature constantly before your eyes?"

"O, to be sure, I hae; but then-" In the meantime I was thinking to myself, what the devil can this phenomena of nature be, when you interrupted me with, "None of your but then's, shepherd. A man who has such an eye as you have, for discerning the goings on of the mighty elements, can never want the choice of a thousand subjects whereon to exercise his pen. You have the night, with her unnumbered stars, that seem to rowl through spaces incomprehensible; the day dawn, and the sunshine; the dazzling splendours of noon, and the sombre hues that pervade the mountains, under the congregated masses of impending vapours."

"

"Gude sauf us, Christy's mair nor half seas ower!" thinks I; " but I maunna pretend no to understand him, for fear he get intil a rage.-Ay, ye're no far wrang, man," I says; there are some gayen good things to be seen atween the heaven an' yirth sometimes. Weel, gude night, or rather gude morning, honest Sir Christy. I'll try to pick you up something o' yon sort."

By all means, Hogg. I insist on it. Something of the phenomena of nature, I beseech you. You should look less at lambs and rams, and hegoats, Hogg, and more at the grand phenomena of nature. You should drink less out of the toddy-jug, shepherd, and more at the perennial spring.

However, we'll say no more about that, as matters stand, to-night; only hand me something of the phenomena of nature."

I came home here, and looked about me soon and late with a watchful eye, and certainly saw many bright and beautiful appearances on the face of the sky, and in the ever-varying hues of the mountains; still I had witnessed all these before; so had every old shepherd in these glens; and I could not persuade myself that any of these was the particular thing, a description of which you wanted; because they were, in fact, no phenomenons, if I understand that French word properly, nor ever were viewed as such by any of our country people. But at length the curiosity of two young shepherds, neighbours of my own, furnished me with a subject that hit my fancy to a hair; and the moment that I first heard the relation, I said to myself, This is the very thing for old Christy." But thereby hangs a tale, which is simply and literally as follows:

On the top of a wild height, called Cowanscroft, where the lands of three proprietors meet all at one point, there has been, for long and many years, the grave of a suicide, marked out by a stone standing at the head, and another at the feet. Often have I stood musing over it myself, when a shepherd on one of the farms of which it formed the extreme boundary, and thinking what could induce a young man, who had scarcely reached the prime of life, to brave his Maker, and rush into his presence by an act of his own erring hand, and one so unnatural and preposterous; but it never once occurred to me as an object of curiosity, to dig up the mouldering bones of the culprit, which I considered as the most revolting of all objects. The thing was, however, done last month, and a discovery made of one of the greatest natural phenomenons that I ever heard of in this country.

The little traditionary history that remains of this unfortunate youth, is altogether a singular one. He was not a native of the place, nor would he ever tell from what place he came, but he was remarkable for a deep, thought

ful, and sullen disposition. There was nothing against his character that anybody knew of, and he had been a considerable time in the place. The last service he was in was with a Mr Anderson of Eltrieve, who died about 100 years ago, and who had hired him during the summer to herd a stock of young cattle in Eltrieve Hope. It happened one day in the month of September, that James Anderson, his master's son, a boy then about ten years of age, went with this young man to the Hope one day, to divert himself. The herd had his dinner along with him; and, about one o'clock, when the boy proposed going home, the former pressed him very hard to stay and take a share of his dinner; but the boy refused, for fear his parents might be alarmed about him, and said he would go home; on which the herd said to him, "Then if ye winna stay wi' me, James, ye may depend on't I'll cut my throat afore ye come back again."

I have heard it likewise reported, but only by one person, that there had been some things stolen out of his master's house a good while before, and that the boy had discovered a silver knife and fork, that was a part of the stolen property, in the herd's possession that day, and that it was this discovery that drove him to despair. The boy did not return to the Hope that afternoon; and, before evening, a man coming in at the pass called the Hart Loup, with a drove of lambs, on the way for Edinburgh, perceived something like a man standing in a strange frightful position at the side of one of Eldinhope hay-ricks. The driver's attention was riveted on this strange, uncouth figure; and as the drove-road passed at no great distance from the spot, he first called, but receiving no answer, he went up to the spot, and behold it was the above-mentioned young man, who had hung himself in the hay rope that was tying down the rick. This was accounted a great wonder, and every one said, if the devil had not assisted him, it was impossible the thing could have been done, for in general these ropes are so brittle, being made of green hay, that they will scarcely bear to be bound over the rick. And the more to horrify the good people of the neighbourhood, the driver said, that when he first came in view, he could almost give his oath that he saw two people engaged busily

about the hay-rick, going round it and round it, and he thought they were dressing it. If this asseveration approximated at all to truth, it makes this evident at least, that the unfortunate young man had hanged himself after the man with the lambs came in view. He was, however, quite dead when he cut him down. He had fastened two of the old hay ropes at the bottom of the rick on one side, (indeed they are all fastened so when first laid on,) so that he had nothing to do but to loosen two of the ends on the other side; and these he tied in a knot round his neck, and then, slackening his knees, and letting himself lean down gradually till the hay rope bore all his weight, he contrived to put an end to his existence in that way. Now the fact is, that if you try all the ropes that are thrown over all the outfield hay ricks in Scotland, there is not one among a thousand of them will hang a colley dog-so that the manner of this wretch's death was rather a singular circumstance.

Early next morning Mr Anderson's servants went reluctantly away, and, taking an old blanket with them for a winding-sheet, they rolled up the body of the deceased, first in his own plaid, letting the hay-rope still remain about his neck, and then rolling the old blanket over all, they bore the loathed remains away the distance of three miles or so on spokes, to the top of Cowan's Croft, at the very point where the Duke of Buccleuch's land, the laird of Drumelzier's, and Lord Napier's meet; and there they buried him, with all that he had on him and about him, silver knife and fork and all together. Thus far went tradition, and no one ever disputed one jot of the disgusting oral tale.

A nephew of that Mr Anderson's, who was with the hapless youth that day he died, says, that, as far as he can gather from the relations of friends that he remembers, and of that same uncle in particular, it is one hundred and five years next month, (that is, September 1823,) since that event happened; and I think it likely that this gentleman's information is correct. But sundry other people, much older than he whom I have consulted, pretend that it is six or seven years more. They say they have heard that Mr James Anderson was then a boy ten years of age; that he lived to an old

age, upwards of four score, and it is two-and-forty years since he died. Whichever way it may be, it was about that period some way, of that there is no doubt. Well, you will be saying, that, excepting the small ornamental part of the devil and the hayrope, there is nothing at all of what you wanted in this ugly traditional tale. Stop a wee bit, my dear Sir Christy. Dinna just cut afore the point. Ye ken auld fools an' young bairns shouldna see things that are half done. Stop just a wee bit, ye auld crusty, crippled, crabbit, editor body, an' I'll let ye see that the grand phenomena of Nature's a' to come to yet.

It so happened, sir, that two young men, William Sheil and W. Sword, were out on an adjoining height, this summer, casting peats, and it came into their heads to open that grave in the wilderness, and see if there were any of the bones of the suicide of former ages and centuries remaining. They did so, but opened only about one half of the grave, beginning at the head and about the middle at the same time. It was not long till they came upon the old blanket,-I think they said, not much more than a foot from the surface. They tore that open, and there was the hay-rope lying stretched down alongst his breast so fresh, that they saw at first sight it was made of risp, a sort of long sword-grass that grows about marshes and the sides of lakes. One of the young men seized the rope, and pulled by it, but the old enchantment of the devil remained. It would not break, and so he pulled and pulled at it till behold the body came up into a sitting posture, with a broad blue bonnet on its head, and its plaid around it, as fresh as that day it was laid in. I never heard of a preservation so wonderful, if it be true as was related to me, for still I have not had the curiosity to go and view the body myself. The features were all so plain, that an acquaintance might easily have known him. One of the lads gripped the face of the corpse with his finger and thumb, and the cheeks felt quite soft and fleshy, but the dimples remained, and did not spring out again. He had fine yellow hair about nine inches long, but not a hair of it could they pull out, till they cut part of it off with a knife. They also cut

off some portions of his clothes, which were all quite fresh, and distributed them among their acquaintances, sending a portion to me among the rest, to keep as natural curiosities. Several gentlemen have in a manner forced me to give them fragments of these enchanted garments; I have, however, retained a small portion for you, which I send along with this, being a piece of his plaid, and another of his waistcoat breast, which you will see are still as fresh as that day they were laid in the grave. His broad blue bonnet was sent to Edinburgh several weeks ago, to the great regret of some gentlemen connected with the land, who wished to have it for a keepsake. For my part, fond as I am of blue bonnets, and broad ones in particular, I declare I durst not have worn that one. There was nothing of the silver knife and fork discovered, that I heard of, nor was it very likely it should; but it would appear he had been very near run of cash, which, I dare say, had been the cause of his utter despair, for, on searching his pockets, nothing was found but three old Scots halfpennies. These young men meeting with another shepherd afterwards, his curiosity was so much excited, that they went and digged up the curious remains a second time, which was a pity, as it is likely that by these exposures to the air, and from the impossibility of burying it up again so closely as it was before, the flesh will now fall to dust.

These are all the particulars that I remember relating to this curious discovery; and I am sure you will confess that a very valuable receipt may be drawn from it for the preservation of dead bodies. If you should think of trying the experiment on yourself, you have nothing more to do than hang yourself in a hay rope, which, by the by, is to be made of risp, and leave orders that you are to be buried in a wild height, and I will venture to predict, that though you repose there for ages an inmate of your mossy cell, of the cloud, and the storm, you shall set up your head at the last day as fresh as a moor-cock. I remain, my worthy friend, yours very truly,

JAMES HOGG.
Altrieve Lake, Aug. 1, 1823.

THE dramatic Delicia of this metropolis of the civilized world now consist in two diminutive theatres, and within their walls in two diminutive pieces. The Hay-Market Theatre is busied with a translation from the French by Kenny, under the touching appellative of " Sweethearts and Wives," and the English Opera-House rests its popularity upon Frankenstein, a dull adapt ation from a mad romance. But both have been too minutely described in the papers of the day to be worth much further dissertation. "Sweethearts and Wives" is easy foollery, chiefly laid upon Liston, who is fooled" to the top of his bent." An old Admiralthat favourite monster of the stage, full of good humour and gout, courtship and cudgelling, exploding perpetual professional jokes, and other " damnable iteration"-figures, in the shape of Terry, through the principal scenes. Love is the business of all, and the comedy winds up with the awful spectacle of four Marriages !-matter of melancholy enough to have furnished out the deepest sorrows of Melpomene. But the stage has long ceased to be the mirror of real life; and the wedded quartette actually go off in smiles and song. There is some lively dialogue, and some pretty music, in this piece. Miss Chester, the heroine, displays her captivations with more than the customary peril of the stage. A female of the auspicious name of Love bears the second honours of beauty, flirtation and matrimony. The men are all assiduous, amiable, tempting, and being tempted. The women are all resolute on settling themselves for life. The Admiral alone survives unfettered, and he scarcely consoles himself with the strange felicity of nursing all the children. But the play is, on the whole, amusing, and should be Kenny's encouragement to trust to the Hay-Market for the next season, and during all seasons to come. His MS. is said to have lain two years at Drury-Lane, and to have been finally returned, as unsuitable to the purposes of the theatre. In spite of prediction it has triumphed, and will be played till the fatal night that closes the portals of the Hay-Market. The coming season at Covent-Garden and Drury-Lane approaches with haughty anticipations on both sides.-Displacements, re

II.

placements, new gilding, new salaries, new actors, new fooleries. DruryLane, by diminishing the area of its awkward and comfortless house, and by substituting cleanliness for squalidness, good actors for bad, and Shakspeare for exhausted comedies and ribald farces, gathered the great theatrical crop of the year. Covent-Garden is now condescending to follow, where she once led, and is said to have commenced the work of building and bronzing with a desperate courage; to be varnishing at this hour with a resolution not to be overcome, and a solemn pledge to wear out her last brush, rather than be again out-painted by mortal manager. Miss Stephens and Liston remain to Drury-Lane out of the spoils of its rival; but Young has been recovered-a great prize. Reynolds holds the truncheon to which poets and scene-shifters bow with habitual reverence at Drury-Lane. Sinclair comes to counterbalance this defection, and comes loaded with laurels and scudi, from potentates and plenipotentiaries innumerable. No slight expectations are formed of his success here. He has been now four years in Italy. He left England with a fine natural voice, but with little science. He has since sung upon every principal stage of the land of music, and no indolence or inaptitude could totally repel improvement under such advantages. He ought to be by this time. master of his art, and if he be, he will have no rival to compete the honours of English popularity.

Frankenstein, a melo-drama adapted from a mad romance, occupies the English Opera-house. The romance bears the name of Shelly's wife, but was probably in a great degree written by Shelly's pen. A singular and unhappy turn of mind urged him to extravagance in his life, and in his authorship, and the novel of Frankenstein is no unfaithful picture of a mind which seems to have been perpetually vibrating on the edge of a melancholy insanity.

The melo-drama is a melange of the common miracles of the carpenter and the scene-painter; the newly-created man is a monster, and the heroes and heroines not unfit companions for his wildness, in probability and outrage.