to that," said the Captain; " and as for my artichokes, you shall taste them to-night. But God only knows the trouble it has cost me. This earth was light and sharp like that of the country round about. I have improved, enriched, and transformed it to what it is now.' “It must indeed have given you trouble," said the young man, trying to suppress a yawn.

You shall judge, Sir," said the Captain, delighted to have brought the conversation to his favourite topic; and he began to describe the different processes he had employed, how many times the earth had been turned up and manured.

Paul and Bertha, tired to death, looked at each other in despair. Strangers to agricultural labours, they took no interest in them. Beyond the fine arts and pleasure, nothing existed for them. By always looking on one side, they appeared to have lost the faculty of sight in other respects, and they despised what they did not understand. Edmund observed their impressions without partaking them, and put an end to the conversation by proposing to return to the house.

They found the Captain's daughter waiting for them in the parlour. On entering, Bertha started as though she had seen something monstrous; a smile played round her mouth for a moment, and the glance she gave her brother was equivalent to an exclamation. To a person accustomed to the refinements of fashion, there really was in Rose's toilette, a series of monstrosities which it was scarce possible to see without laughing. Each article of her dress belonged to a different epoch, and presented a sample of the successive fashions which had prevailed for the last ten years. The result of this combination of form and colour, was a most disharmonious tout ensemble, impossible to describe. Unfortunately, her figure did not redeem this fault; she was stiff and embarrassed; even her pretty face expressed uneasiness and constraint, and every movement, as Bertha remarked, seemed made the wrong way.

She presented her blushing cheek to her cousin, curtsied to the strangers, and then sat down, stiff and motionless, in the darkest corner of the room.

"If I had not touched her hand," whispered Paul to his sister, "I should have thought her a pasteboard doll, with eyes of enamel and a set of ivory teeth."

Gracious," said Bertha in the same tone, "she wears beaver shoes."

"And a chain made of hair, "added Paul; "I would give any thing to draw a caricature of her."

Just then Marguerite came in to lay the cloth; she had a long debate with the Captain about the size of the table, and then with Rose about the linen to be used. Mr. Dubois got in a passion, and Rose, whose dress was too tight, tore it in endeavouring to reach the pile of table napkins.

Edmund was annoyed, and Rose very much confused. Garin and his sister had evidently great trouble to look serious. Mr. Dubois alone appeared quite at his ease, and recommenced his explanations of the different processes necessary for the cultivation of each sort of vegetable. He soon arrived at the great storm of Manilla, from which he had escaped in 1806. This storm was the one great era of the sailor's life-the source of all his comparisons and similes. Once a week, for the last fifteen years, he had treated his friends with a faithful description of the great storm of Manilla, without the omission of a single circumstance, and whatever might be the subject of conversation, he never failed to introduce the storm. From his favourite topic, therefore, his friends and neighbours had given him the cognomen of the Great Storm.

He did not fail to inflict it on his new guests before

supper, and was preparing to finish it after, when Garin, pleading his own and his sister's fatigue, asked permission to retire. Marguerite conducted the young lady to her chamber. It was a large room, with yellow tapestry and red casy chairs, and an enormous chimney-piece decorated with artificial flowers under glass shades. The only lookingglass was hung six feet from the floor, over a card-table, intended to serve as a toilet. This was the state bed-room, and was only used on grand occasions, of which Marguerite did not fail to inform the young lady.

As for Paul Garin, the Captain himself ushered him into the old library, where the shelves and book-cases, instead of books, contained flower-seeds and bulbs, all ticketed. A ship in full sail, the only work of art in which the sailor had ever succeeded, hung from the centre of the ceiling in lieu of a chandelier, and a few stuffed beasts and birds were stuck on an old wardrobe by way of ornament. The Captain assured the young man that the bed was a good one, and told him to move his chair if he wanted anything, bells and bell-ropes being unknown at La Cherrière. He also desired him to be careful in putting out his candle, and advised him to wear a nightcap for fear of taking cold.

The next morning, hearing a loud knocking at the door, Paul jumped up, thinking the house was on fire. It was Mr. Dubois, wet with the morning dew, and with wooden shoes, who was come to call him for breakfast.

66

"Breakfast!" cried the young painter, astounded, Why, what is the hour?"

"Seven o'clock."

"And do you breakfast at seven ?"

"Why do you think it too early for us, who dine at twelve ?"

The young man looked at him with an air of stupefaction. "I beg pardon," said he at last, "but in that case my sister and I will breakfast at dinner." "And what will you do till that time ?"_¡ "Sleep, I hope."

"

"For shame!" cried the Captain, a bad habit for a young man. I have been up three hours, and already broken a crust and swallowed a little cognac. Come, out of bed, my young Parisian! and quick to breakfast."

Really, Sir," said Garin impatiently, "I am more than half asleep."

"I see that very well, but you must learn to shake it off. I also used to be subject to heaviness, especially in warm countries. I remember as we were leaving Manilla in 1806,-"

"I beg pardon, Sir," said Garin, abruptly, seeing the great storm about to break over his head, "I am going to rise, but pray do not wait for me."

"

"I know better what is due to my guests," said the Captain. "I shall take a walk in the garden, and when you are dressed you shall hear how in 1806,-"For heaven's sake don't wait for me," said Garin, preparing to rise.

"Do not make yourself uneasy about us, I give you five minutes to trim yourself. I am going to ask Rose if your sister has been called."

But Bertha sent them word to breakfast without her, which caused general uneasiness. The Captain declared she must be ill, and Rose timidly proposed to send for the doctor. Old Marguerite too, muttered something about the disagreeableness of strangers dying at their house To tranquillise them, Paul Garin was obliged to confess that his sister never rose before half-past eleven, or breakfasted before twelve. He then asked the Captain if it were possible to procure lodgings at Pornic, during the bathing season. He was informed that a new establish

ment had been formed, like that at Dieppe, and that strangers were provided with every convenience and amusement to be found at such places. The young painter was overjoyed, and declared his intention of removing thither the same day. The Captain tried to persuade him to remain with them, but in vain.

THE VISION OF LAS CASAS.*

THE name of Las Casas will ever be illustrious in the

number of active philanthropists, and the more so as it appears in immediate connexion with the crime-stained names of those remorseless men, who by the sword, by the rack, and by the oppressions of slavery, had within fifteen years cut off one million of their unoffending fellowcreatures. This eloquent, zealous, and indefatigable intercessor for the poor Indians was now ninety years of age, and on his death-bed; and though his most ardent desires had long been fixed on the rewards of heaven, still he trembled at the near approach of eternity. But it was like the fear of a lovely bride, who trembles at the change about to take place in her condition, even at the moment wherein the happiness of her life is realized, and all her hopes and wishes crowned with success. He was conscious of the purity of his heart, and of the innocence of his life; he had stood unawed in the presence of kings, and feared no earthly judge; but his God was the judge into whose presence he was now to enter, and he dreaded the thought of infinite holiness and justice; for the undaunted eye of uprightness, and the dim eye of guilt," are alike overpowered by the brightness of the sun.

A worthy friar sat at his feet who was also aged, and since many years his friend. An uprightness equal to his own had filled him with a tender love for Las Casas, and the consciousness of inferior powers with wonder and reverential awe. With grief he saw his friend, whose bedside he never quitted, grow weaker and weaker, and in the vain attempt to raise a hope in his own breast, addressed him with expressions of confidence; but the old man, full of the great thought of eternity, begged him to withdraw, and leave him alone with his Judge.

Las Casas lay reviewing the whole of his past life. Wherever he turned his eyes he found errors and faults, and that in their full extent. Their consequences expanded before him like a sea, whilst like a spring in the desert, which sinks and is dried up in the sand, and neither bud nor blossom decks its banks, every better deed seemed little and impure, and barren of the good which might have been expected. Repentant, humbled, and ashamed, he inwardly prostrated himself before God, and prayed from the depths of his soul, "Enter not into judgment with me, O Lord; gracious Father, let me find mercy at thy throne!"

The strength of the dying man was not equal to this excitement, and notwithstanding his efforts a deep sleep fell on his eyes. Suddenly he felt as though the stars of heaven were under his feet, and that he was traversing boundless space on clouds, and in the distance beheld a majestic darkness, broken by streams of the light of the divine glory, and surrounded on all sides by innumerable hosts in constant intercourse with the worlds below. His eye dazzled and bewildered, his spirit lost in wonder and awe, an angel stood before him. He stood before him with the severe aspect of a judge, and bore in his left hand a roll, which he unfurled with his right. An agony, such as seizes a condemned criminal at sight of the scaffold on which he

Translated for the "London Saturday Journal," from the German of J. J. Engel.

is to bleed, shot through the trembling old man, as the angel first pronounced his name, and then presented to him all the high ennobling qualities which had been implanted in his mind, all the good and gentle inclinations which had been infused into his blood, all the occasions, all the helps to virtue, which had been, as it were, inwoven with his fate on earth; so that at last he was brought to think, that all the good there might be in him came from God, and nothing of his own was left but his errors and his sins.*

Then the heart of Las Casas expanded in hope; for although his faults were more in number than the sands of the sea, yet there was much that was good and noble, and as he advanced in years, the good increased and the errors became less; whilst experience and reflection gave strength to his mind, and the inclination and power to do good was augmented by its habitual practice. But noblest actions were more or less sullied in their origin. even his best endeavours were not perfect before God; his

But soon the angel warmed in his discourse, and he became more and more eloquent. ripened into manhood, and had appeared as the champion For the youth had all its blessings, but now full of bloodshed and misery. of mankind in those islands, once the abode of peace with

It was written how the sufferings of innocence became his own; how his whole spirit was animated by an energy that diminished not in the years of his advanced old age; how, confident of the justice of his cause, he dared the vengeance of the mighty, and uttered maledictions on the thirst of gold which led to bloodshed, on the spiritual pride that beheld it with a smile, and on the policy that forgot to resent it;-how, regardless of storms and rocks, he crossed and recrossed the deep sea, whether to bring his complaints before the throne, or to bring to desponding innocence the consolation of hope;--how fearlessly he stepped before the proud conqueror himself, the first master of two worlds, and to his face uncompromisingly denounced his guilt, in a manner that made him feel as though in the actual presence of the Judge of the world, and that the unquenchable flames of hell already surrounded his sick bed;-how he gave way to grief on beholding his hopes blighted, rending heaven with his cries, but soon again mastering his feelings, arose as a man, and continued with courage and strength to form new schemes; how every gleam of hope that beamed on the unhappy race filled his heart with the highest and purest delights; and when the last was lost in a dark eternal gloom, how he then buried himself in the deepest seclusion, and refused all joy and consolation; the world then was to him but a prison-house, and an earnest desire of dissolution and eternity filled his whole soul.

As the angel continued to read, his cheek glowed with increasing warmth: he raised his voice, his countenance became more animated, and he shed a purer and more lovely light around him; for zeal for truth and right, though only testified by tears and fearless discourse, if deeds be refused, is of unspeakable value in the sight of Heaven. But the old man remained with his eyes fixed on the cloud, and a dark, thoughtful seriousness in his manner, for his heart was weighed down by that unblest counsel, whereby he had once in thoughtless despair oppressed one people to ease the burden of the other. He was wandering in idea amidst the regions round the Gambia and the Senegal, and far into the interior of that

We omit a passage here, because it is deeply tinged with the neology, or 66 natural" religion, now so prevalent in Ger many, and which has almost extinguished the gospel in that

country.

*

"Take from me, oh, take from me," sobbed Las Casas, whose voice returned with a torrent of tears, "take from me, if thou canst, the remembrance of that deed, or I shall ever carry my condemnation within me. Destroy also, as thou hast destroyed the roll, the recollection of that deed in my inmost soul, or I, even in the bosom of bliss, shall mourn for peace."

"Mortal," cried the angel, "where is bliss but within thee, where but in thine own soul? Wherein can it consist for thee, a finite being,-for thee who never canst be without fault and error as God, but in that thou dost feel thyself active in doing good with all thy might, and dost cherish a heartfelt, faithful love for even the lowliest of thy brethren, and even in the bitterness of thy sorrow, when thou hast erred, dost feel the nobleness of thy soul." "Oh! but this unbounded, unspeakable misery throughout countless ages-"

"Shall be turned into joy, to the height of felicity, in the plans of thy Creator. Thou hast beheld thyself in thy weakness, now acknowledge Him in his glory."

At his command the cloud divided amidst rolling thunders, and they were borne hand in hand to the lower part of the creation. This earth now revolved at the feet of Las Casas; and the immortal angel drew his attention to wild inhospitable mountain ridges covered with eternal snow and ice, to all the horrors of dark, conflicting hurricanes, and to the ravages of raging storms, as they passed in review beneath them. But from the mountains there flowed brooks and streams, on whose banks millions of living creatures dwelt in enjoyment; blessings showered down from heaven from amidst the conflict of hurricanes, and fields and forests wore a brighter aspect; and where the ravages of the storms had been deplored, the free power of breathing was restored to the breast, and the bloom of health to the cheek; for the power of the plague, which had been advancing fearfully on noisome vapours, was crushed! Thus did he investigate evil after evil with the wondering Las Casas, through the whole range of the visible and invisible creation; and with still increasing rapture he initiated him into those high perceptions, the

mystery of which in its full extent no mortal hand unfolds to mortal view; how amidst all the instability and contradictions of finite creatures, the Infinite steadily pursues his ways in glory, so that throughout his heavenly host, and throughout the whole height, and breadth, and depth of the creation, no flaw, no discord is left to mar it. He convinced him that in the hidden regions of the soul, suffering still calls forth activity, and becomes the mother and guardian of all the highest and noblest feelings of humanity; and showed him how the poor kidnapped slave gathers new impressions, which will endure through all eternity, in a foreign clime; impressions in which is contained the fulness of blessed knowledge, in like manner as the harvest is contained in the grain of seed, and the mighty forest in the tender twig; and from thence he went on to expound to him how in later periods of his existence, every virtue should come to flourish in his poor, suffering soul, not excepting love itself, that noblest and mildest of all virtues, the very acme of civilization and perfection of humanity, embracing even our deadly enemies; and how the persecutor and oppressor of innocence, himself, weak and disordered as every faculty of his nature might be, should be saved from destruction, so that the sentence pronounced against him should only be a delay of happiness; he should be condemned to pursue a rough and thorny by-way, that should take him far away from the gates of heaven, but finally bring him back to his destination! Finally he showed him how from wickedness there springs misery; and from misery, repentance; and from repentance, virtue; and from virtue, happiness; and from happiness still more exalted virtue,-in a word, how every discord on earth resolves itself into harmony, and every accent of mourning into perfect joy.

Absorbed in attention and with an awe constantly increasing, and filling his whole being at the immediate presence of God, the old man stood before the angel as the latter thus instructed him in the deep mystery of love. His ignorance fell from his eyes like scales; the shades of doubt with all its horrors vanished away, and the clear, blessed light of day had broken to him over the inmost parts of the creation, the very dawning of which was full of rapture. But he was still inwardly wrung with compassion and sadness, and floods of tears again coursed down his aged cheeks amidst this conflict of his feelings.

"Oh Thou!" he exclaimed, falling on his knees and raising his hands and eyes towards heaven; "Oh Thou, whom I have sought after from my youth up, even until this hour, and who hast now deigned to reveal thyself unto me as thou art, all grace, and love, and mercy,thou, my Father, and not my Judge, and the Father of all thy creatures, and of all thy countless worlds, O God! O God! who dost show me rich harvests of salvation, even where my folly had sown destruction; Thou, who dost take from me every sorrow of my heart, and dost cause me to feel in my inmost soul that to obey thee alone is blessedness, the perfection of which is to behold thy glory, and dost reward the desire after goodness,-alas! the bare desire and striving after good,-with these ecstasies, and dost convert errors themselves in their remotest consequences into sources of new ecstasies!-Glorious! incomprehensible Being! Thou, whose honour the heavens; thou, whose honour I, dust and—but I can no more, my strength faileth me."

And it was so-his strength did fail him; his tongue refused its office. The angel graciously stretched forth his hands and raised him, and with a look of deep, incxpressible love, he drew him to his bosom and called him brother.

Here Las Casas awoke. As he raised his eyes he beheld his earthly brother, the poor monk, gently approaching

him to listen for his breath. He would have spoken, and communicated to him as a debt of friendship, the bliss that filled his whole soul-but too late; he sank back and lay extended in death. The monk hung over him trembling and in silence; he then sank down on the corpse, and weeping, kissed the remains of his lost friend, but his eyes raised towards heaven, and his folded, hands bespoke an inward prayer to God, that his end might be like the end of this righteous person. For the death of the nobleminded Las Casas was easy; like the quiet slumbering of the infant on the breast of its mother, and peace of mind proceeding from the knowledge of God and of himself, was even after death depicted in the smiles on his countenance. F. M. H.

while a bow was being drawn slowly over the chords. They descended while the sound was at its height; and soon after, it began to lessen with the motion of the sand, until at the end of a quarter of an hour, all was still again. Lieut. Newbold remarked, that the surface of the land was in every part traversed by waves, or furrows, from one to two inches in height, and, from the triangular form of the face of the slope, increasing in length as they got nearer the earth. He also observed that the sand in motion, when nearer the top, produced shriller notes than when lower down, and consequently, that the lowest notes were heard at the bottom. He appears from this, to draw some analogy between the increasing length of the waves, and that of the chords of a stringed instrument. While the experiment was making, there was a steady breeze from the west, blowing against the surface of the sand, and

THE BELL;"

ON THE PENINSULA OF MOUNT SINAI.

THIS curious hill has been long celebrated for the extraordinary tones elicited from it, which have generally been compared to the deep booming of a bell. Of the cause of the phenomenon, many opinions have been broached. The Arabs in the neighbourhood, with their ordinary propensity to a belief in the marvellous, attribute it to the real bells of a subterranean convent; and the Christian monks of Mount Sinai countenance the belief, by the idle story that the sound was first heard after the destruction of one of their convents in its vicinity. The ideas of European travellers on the matter, have been sometimes scarcely more reasonable. Some have supposed the sounds to be caused by the dropping of sand into the cavities of the rocks; others by its motion and over hollow rocks; others, again, have attributed them to subterraneous volcanoes; and a few have supposed that the action of the wind upon the elastic plates of mica, which is a component part of granite, may be the origin of the sound. Lieut. Newbold seems to have proved that the opinion of Capt. Wellsted is correct, that the sound is produced by the rolling down of the sand, driven into motion by the wind, or by the footsteps of passengers on its surface. Lieut. Newbold left Wadi For, on his visit to the Mountain of the Bell, on the 10th of June last. After two hours' riding, and a short walk of half an hour, he reached the place, which he describes as a bell-shaped hill, from 350 to 400 feet in height. On its western side, which faces the Red Sea, is a slope of about 80 feet, covered with a very fine quartzose sand, varying in depth from five or six inches to as many feet, according to the

form of the sandstone rock which it covers.

This is the spot from whence the mysterious sounds issue. Not the slightest noise was heard; but their Arab guide, desiring them to wait still at the bottom of the hill, began to ascend the slope, sinking to his knees at every step. The travellers soon heard a faint sound, resembling the lower string of a violoncello, slightly touched; and being disappointed at the result, determined to ascend themselves, in spite of the sun's intense heat, and the extreme fineness of the sand. On reaching the summit, they sat down to observe the effect. The particles of sand set in motion, agitated not only those below them, but, though in a less degree, those all around them, like the surface of water disturbed by a stone. In about two minutes they heard a rustling sound, and then the musical tone alluded to, which gradually increased to that of a deep, mellow, church-bell, so loud, that it rivalled the rumbling of distant thunder. This occurred when the whole surface was in motion; and the effect upon themselves, the travellers compared to what they supposed might be felt by persons seated upon some enormous stringed instrument

it having been found that the sounds are much fainter in still weather. When the weather is wet, no sound is produced, because the sand is then agglomerated, and will not slide at all.

AMERICAN NOMENCLATURE.

ON looking over the names of those tracts and appropriations of lands advertised for sale, it was impossible not following are only a few examples. "Hard Struggle, to be struck with the oddity of some of them, of which the Man, 189 acres"-" Paradise Regained, 1500 acres" 1554 acres"-" Isaac's Blessing, 48 acres"-" Rights of "Now or Never, 600 acres"-" Myself, 61 acres"“Canaan, 3648 acres"-" Hornet's Nest, 208 acres""Honest Miller, 50 acres"- "Hard Bargain, re-surveyed, 329 acres"-"Last Shift"-"Hope"-"What you Please" -"Blue-eyed Mary," &c. &c.

It would appear from the above, that our modern transatlantic brethren have not degenerated from the fanciful significancy in such matters of their forefathers. The following jeu d'esprit was extracted from a Bath Herald newspaper, about twenty years ago.

"Of all people who ever imposed whimsical names on a newly-settled country, the Americans have certainly Muddy river,' 'Little Shallow river,' 'Good Woman river, been the most unlucky in their choice; witness, Big

6

Good Woman creek,' Grindstone creek,' Cupboard creek,' Fly-blowing creek,' cum multis aliis, in the same felicitous taste. When this country shall have its civilised inhabitants, its cities, its scholars, and its poets, how sweetly

will such names sound in American verse!

Ye plains, where sweet Big Muddy rolls along,
And Tea-Pot, one day to be famed in song!
Where swans on Biscuit and on Grindstone glide,
And willows wave upon Good Woman's side.
How shall your happy streams in after time,
Tune the soft lay, and fill the sonorous rhyme!
Blest bards! who in your amorous verse will call
On murmuring Pork, and gentle Cannon-ball,
Split-Rock, and Stick Ledge, and Two Thousand Mile,
White Linn, and Cupboard, and Bad-Humoured Isle!
Flow, Little Shallow, flow, and be thy stream
Their great example, as 'twill be their theme.
Isis, with Rum, and Onion, cannot vie !
Cam shall resign the palm to Blowing Fly,

And Thames and Tagus yield to great Big Little Dry!"

Matrimony.-An editor out west heads his list of marriages, "Noose Items;" another styles them, "Feats of the Ring."-Buckingham's America.

LITERARY AND MORAL GEMS.-No. VI.

SELECTED BY A LADY.

[FROM THE LATE MISS LANDON'S " FEMALE PORTRAIT GALLERY."]

SCOTT'S ROWENA.

ROWENA is an ingenious blending of the natural and the artificial, so generally at war with each other in society. Born timid, sweet, and yielding, she is brought up to pride, reserve, and authority. The will, which originally had the pliancy of the flower spray, has become a power accustomed to dominion, and the lovely Saxon encounters opposition with astonishment, that "each soft wish should not be held for law." The moment difficulties come, she has nothing to meet them with but tears. And this we see every day;-the mask and the features are not cast in the same mould; yet the mask is worn so long, that the features take its likeness. That "e'en in our ashes live our wonted fires," is not true of those sifted embers which constitute what is called society. We become things of habits and forms; "the breathing pulse of the machine" is modulated into set beatings. Donne says:

"Who makes the last a pattern for next year,
Turns no new leaf, but still the same thing leads,
Seen things he sees again, and heard things hears,
And makes his life but like a pair* of beads."

And yet this is but the common routine of existence-and best that it should be so it is, for those who feel too keenly, and who turn their eye on the inward world, and think that fate keeps her deadliest arrow in store. It is the Rebeccas, not the Rowenas, who go forth in the solitude of the heart. How often amid those who seem in our masquerade world to be clothed with smiles, and who hold no discourse, save on familiar matter of to-day," should we find one whose suffering might startle us,-"Could we put aside,

66

The mask and mantle that are worn by pride?" How different too, would the real character be from that which is assumed! how little, often, do the most intimate know of each other! But the difference which the stranger might discover, is nothing to that which we trace in ourselves. The burning climate of the south leaves its darkness on the cheek—the trying air of the world leaves a yet deeper darkness upon the heart. To the generous, the affectionate, and the high-minded, these lessons are taught more bitterly than to the calmer, colder, and more selfish temperament. But to those who sprang forth into life love in the heart, and that heart on the lips, harsh is the teaching of experience. How has the eager kindness been repaid by ingratitude; affection has been bestowed and neglected; trust repaid by treachery; and last and worst complained, by whom have we been beloved even as we have loved?

Ivanhoe is the first historical novel; Scott was the

magician who took up the old ballad, the forgotten chronicle, and the dim tradition, saying, "Can these bones live?" He gave them breathing, brilliant, active life. No historian ever did for his country what he has done, no one ever made the past so palpably familiar to the present. Till he drew attention towards it, it is singular how little people in general knew of the English history. He has acted as master of the ceremonies between us and our forefathers, and made popular the entertainment he originated. It has been deemed an objection to the historical novel, that its coloured pages are likely to divert

* Query, string?

attention from the graver page of history. We might answer, that a reader so indolent and so uninquiring, would have been likely, without such attraction, not to have read at all; but we must also draw attention to the fact of how many severely antiquarian works date their origin from the interest excited in the Waverley Novels. "The respect for gentle birth,' is a characteristic of the Scottish nation, and this, if a prejudice, grows out of our noblest illusions. It is a disinterested pride, taking something solemn from the dead, among whom it must originate. Its chief distinctions are the guerdon of high qualities, of skill in the council, and courage in the field. The good fame of those who have gone before, seems at once the gauge and the incentive of our own. common-place of to-day, is coloured by the picturesque of yesterday. Never will there be poetry, generous endeavour, or lofty standard of excellence, but among a people who take pride in the past.”

The

"Another great beauty in the Monastery, are the poetical fragments sung by the White Lady. Fanciful, full of imagery and melody, they would bear comparison with Scott's earliest and happiest efforts;-though the word effort is mistaken as applied to poetry. It comes unbidden, if it come at all.' Its very writers might themselves wonder why at times harmony and imagery crowd upon the mind, which, at another time, would seek them, and in vain. The presence of poetry is as mysterious and uncertain in its loveliness, as the shadowy beauty of the White Lady of Avenel."

CATHERINE SEYTON.

"How true to the more generous impulses of her age, is the utter disbelief of all the charges brought against each other. Youth is frank, eager, and prone to believe in the queen! Suspicion and youth are no comrades for the good. It looks round, and it sees flowers; it looks up, and sees stars. Evil appears impossible, because it does not seem to be in ourselves. It remains for after and weary years to teach us, that even the young and the innocent may be led into crime by the strong influence of temptation. Passion first, and interest afterwards, lures in earlier and holier hours deemed they could tread. We the feet of men into dark and crooked paths, which none may have been often deceived, but it is not until we ourselves begin to deceive, that we dread deceit.”

MARY STUART.

"Her name is a note of the nightingale.' What the troubadour minstrel said of his mistress, may be also said of Mary Stuart. Beauty, and all the prestige that birth gives to beauty, the far deeper interest that attends misfortune, and the abiding terror of a violent death; all these invest the memory of the ill-fated queen with a sad charm, felt to the present hour. No man,' says Brantome, ever beheld her without love and admiration, or thought of her fate without sorrow and pity."

[How touchingly do the first and last passages of this, apply to the gifted author! Her biographer has done good service to the cause of genius and of departed worth, By executing a delicate and deeply responsible duty, ably, admirably, and convincingly.]

It was a beautiful sentiment of one whom her lord proposed to put away-"Give me then back," said she, "that which I

brought to you." And the man answered in his vulgar coarse

ness of soul," Your fortune I shall return to you." "I thought not of fortune," said the lady; "give me back my real wealth

give me back my beauty and my youth-give me back the virginity of my soul-give me back the cheerful mind, and the heart that had never been disappointed."