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had seriously impaired her health. The ravages of dis-
ease, however, extended not to her vigorous mind. Her
spirits were frequently as light, her laugh as free, as if
pain had never visited her gentle frame. Accomplished,
and, like Wordsworth's "conspicuous flower,"
"Admired for beauty, for her sweetness praised,"
she was thought to enjoy all that could make life pass
happily. But even in those moments when strangers
believed her most to be envied, the canker-worm was at
work within. This, too, she herself knew well, and the
saddening conviction would bring a cloud upon her brow
even in the gayest hour. Often did she retire to weep
while the circle she had delighted was yet loud in her
praise, or envied that cheerfulness which could enliven
the most saturnine. She feared that her numbered days
were soon to be exhausted. I had tried to remove this
impression, but all my efforts were vain. After being
some time in Paris, she became more than ever persuaded
that the struggle could not long be supported. Repeatedly
did I reason on the subject, but she grew daily more
fixed in her first belief, and, anxious to select a spot where
her remains might be interred, often urged me to go with
her to my favourite burying-ground. Fearful that so
near a contemplation of the realities of death might be
too much for weak nerves, I used every argument to dis-

found among the cypresses and yews of Père la Chaise,
yet it was there alone, in all the vicinity of Paris, that
the approach of early spring could yet be discovered. To
this burying-ground, therefore, I resolved to pay a visit.
A month or two later, and the varied heights of Saint
Cloud, the enchanted labyrinths of Versailles, the purpled
walks of Fontenay-aux-Roses, or the yet more lovely vale
of Montmorency, where nature revels fancy-free, might
have attracted my steps. But in the beginning of March,
the only visitable spot is that one seemingly least suited
to excite pleasurable emotions. For me, this crowded
place of repose (which has been so often written about)
ever has a fresh interest. Never have I entered it, with-
out feelings of sadness; never have I left it, without be-
ing more reconciled to change, less heedful of worldly
things. The sleep of death here seems so sweet-the
living pass through this abode of the departed with such
a reverential tread-that one feels not hurt by the thought
of its being, perhaps at no distant period, his last resting-
place. Some complain that there is too much of show,
too much of ornament--but the care taken by the living
in tending the frail flowers planted round the graves,
which I have often seen watered by burning tears, is
surely more consoling to those who may soon require such
fond service, than if the sepulchre were at once abandon-
ed. May not the departed soul look complacently on the
friend who guards the sod that covers the earthly taber-suade her from making the attempt, but at last had prò-
nacle it so lately tenanted? Nor is it a mere show of mised to accompany her thither as soon as the opening of
grief that is here exhibited, for no one can have often a milder season should render exposure to the air less dan-
visited Père la Chaise, without witnessing sorrow the gerous.
most poignant: tears, bitter as ever flowed, sobs from the
very heart, are the tribute frequently paid on the grave
of some lamented friend. Oft in passing through this
impressive scene, has my sympathy been excited, on find-
ing a lonely mourner by the side of a newly-covered grave.
Such instances I have met many of them-completely
removed from my mind any objection I might at first
have had to the seemingly ostentatious display here made
of the regret felt by the living. Nothing can be more
painful than the sight of a man in tears, yet I have in-
voluntarily arrested my steps, on seeing the bereaved fa-
ther shedding floods of tears on his son's cold grave. That
worst of agonies, tearless grief, has also struck my atten-
tion; and the very want of this vain dew" but excited
a stronger compassion. During my early visits, I fre-
quently saw a female of elegant appearance, clad in the
deepest mourning, leaning on a nameless tombstone. Day
after day she took up her sorrowful watch. Grief was
imprinted on every feature, yet not a sob was heard, not
a tear seemed to roll along her parched cheek. I never
passed the spot, without thinking how appropriately the
language of Hermione would have sounded from her
lips:

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That these exhibitions of genuine sorrow are not numerous, I am willing to admit; but the occurrence of a few such cases might suffice to remove the impression, which is too general in this country, that every thing in French burial-grounds is "got up" for show. That much of the frippery and mere neatness of Père la Chaise is the work of the florist or of the stonemason, cannot be denied; but to see there a single case of unfeigned sorrow, is enough to sanctify it in the eyes of a stranger. To my having beheld there such scenes, may be owing much of the melancholy pleasure I always felt in visiting his unusual place of resort. On the present occasion, I had an additional inducement, from having as a companion one who had long wished to accompany me thither. Born beneath an eastern sky, the varying climate of Europe, to which she was removed at a very early age,

The spring at Paris dawns most sweetly. Some of its early days are perhaps the finest, certainly the most delightful, of the whole year; and on one of these did we drive to the melancholy scene we had long proposed to visit. The sky was partially clouded, but only so much as to excite that not unpleasant anxiety which enhances our enjoyment of a fine day. The air was so light as scarce to weigh perceptibly on those just escaped from the severities of a frosty winter; and the feeling of awe ever experienced on entering a place connected with so many solemn thoughts, gradually subsided into a pleasant melancholy as we began to climb the declivity on which stands the simple chapel. Our task was less difficult than I had usually found it at the close of winter. Instead of being covered with heavy clay, which frequently renders them impassable, the well-beaten footpaths were firm to our tread. We passed from tomb to tomb, pausing now by that of some warrior who had once filled the ear of terror-struck Europe, but here occupying as little space as the obscure citizen who passed through life without fame, and died without having done aught by which his name might be remembered; now arresting our step beside the last home of one who had reached the extremest stage of human existence, and a few paces farther contrasting his fate with that of some infant recorded to have parted with life before encountering those trials humanity must endure. At one time we lingered by the grave of the artist, who had made the world forget the obscurity of his birth, by the commanding influence of genius; at another we hurried by that of one who had disgraced his high rank by vices the most base. Here we met with the last record of one who had died in the midst of numberless friends;-there stood a monument to him who had expired a stranger amongst strangers, with scarce a voice to soothe him in his last hour. One stone was dedicated to the memory of two sisters, who died within a few weeks of each other. As if separation had been insupportable; the younger had fallen a victim to the violence of that affection

"which bade them be

True to each other, as on the sea

Two loving birds, whom a wave may divide,
But who float back soon to each other's side."

Amid all this havoc, amid all these proofs of Death's

undistinguishing sway, the mind becomes firmer. We learn to look on the tyrant with less fear on finding before us immediate proof that all must submit to his decrees. Familiarity with what may at first terrify, weans us from an undefined fear. Thus, so far from being frightened by a visit to which I had looked forward as too much for her, my companion gradually became more cheerful. She talked gaily of the past, thought hopingly of the future. The fears which once dwelt upon her mind disappeared-like the clouds imperceptibly dispelled by the sun from the landscape at our feet. The sluggard Seine shone more brightly to the beams, now glittering along its surface, and gilding at the same time the majestic dome of the Invalides. Throughout the vast wilderness of buildings stretching indistinctly in the distance, tower after tower successively stood out more boldly to the eye, till, as we loitered on the chapel steps, the whole of that wide-spread city was displayed to our gaze, with scarce a speck to conceal the heights beyond. A view more imposing can scarcely be enjoyed. There lies the immense capital of one of the greatest nations of the world, lulled, as it were, to rest,-for little but a low confused hum reaches the ear. Yet, even from this point, some of its darkest as well as brightest features are seen; though the princely Tuileries fills some of the landscape, it scarce attracts so much attention as that humble bridge, near which stands the last receptacle of misfortune, that gloomy charnel-house of guilt, the foul Morgue, which I could never pass without a shudder, thinking by what crimes it was filled. The assassin's steel, the gambler's despair, the wretchedness of his ruined children, ever rose to view as I glanced at the loathsome structure. These associations were less endurable than all we had felt while moving through the silent tombs of the dead, and were only effaced when our eyes fell on an edifice devoted to nobler purposes, the Salpetrière, where aged females are comfortably sheltered from the ills of poverty and years. The excited feelings were soothed by reflecting on this more grateful subject, and we resumed our survey with renovated strength. The spirits of my companion improved with the day. She talked cheerfully of all we had seen, and looked calmly to the time when she too might dwell in this house of death, which was now deemed so sweet and inviting, that the prospect of reposing within its precincts was no longer unwelcome. The opening buds that gemmed each grave carried her forward to a land

tinguished himself by his inclination for learning; and what was remarkable in a Jew, he confined not himsel to his own contracted sphere of Hebrew literature; but boldly bursting through the prejudices that fettered hi countrymen, he expatiated abroad into the more ample an diversified fields of Greek and Roman science. He mad himself an eloquent master of the language of Athens, an became thereby enabled to defend, and do justice to, hi country, and to celebrate, in the universal and harmoniou language of Homer and Herodotus, the institutions, man ners, and achievements, of his sublime and extraordinar countrymen. He was not only an accomplished scholar but an ingenious and accomplished general; he, for a lon time, checked and baffled, by his talents, the victorious arm of Vespasian; and when, at last, necessity compelle him to philosophize on the advantages or the expediency of submission, he had already secured the esteem and ad miration of his noble opponents, who knew virtue too we in themselves not to value it in at once an accomplishe and undaunted enemy. Like the Grecian General Poly bius, to whom his character and circumstances bear con siderable resemblance, he, after fighting bravely agains the conquerors of the world, and sharing at last the fat of a captive, was at once admitted into their friendshi and most familiar confidence; and, at last, with his per commended that magnanimity and skill in arms which a once had extorted his admiration and compelled his sub mission. Happy had it been for his countrymen had the been influenced by his excellent counsels, as the Greek were by those of the virtuous general of Megalopolis!

The works of Josephus are voluminous, and bear testi mony to his diligent and persevering genius. His largest though not his best, work, is his Archæology, or Jewis Antiquities, in twenty books, wherein he deduces the his tory of Judea from the creation to the age of Nero, an which is chiefly valuable from its filling up the chasm tha separates Old and New Testament History. His Jewis War, in seven books-his most eloquent work—details along with some preliminary recapitulation, the terribl incidents of that singular war that commenced under Nero and terminated in the extirpation of the Jews, and de struction of their capital by Vespasian and Titus.

It is only of the style of the Jewish historian that th writer of these remarks means here to speak, and not o the credibility of his statements as compared with th Bible, and as inducing or justifying against their autho a charge of credulity or of incredulity. The style of Jo sephus in his Archæology is somewhat irregular and dis crepant. His mind and his pen seem to vacillate betwee the redundancies of Grecian eloquence, which, being fa shionable in his day, he rather affected, and the simplicit of Hebrew narration, as presented to us, unadorned an unaffected, by the historians of the Old Testament, t which his mind, as it necessarily resorted to them for in formation, had also a propensity to adhere, as a native, i laudable imitation. There is a perpetual conflict, as were, between the concise simplicity of Judea and th splendid exaggeration of Greece; a heterogeneous mixtu of the splendid with the simple in writing, as, in arch tecture, the intermixture of Palestine plainness with Gr cian magnificence in the tombs of the valley of Jehoshapha Accordingly, the naked narrative of Moses is in man places spoiled, as it passes through the hands of this hi torian, by unnecessary exuberance. The story of Josepl so exquisitely impressive by its touching and forcible sin plicity, where every word is, as it were, a weapon; tl dedication of the temple by Solomon, one of the fine passages to be found in any writing, are vitiated and r duced in their effect by the cumbersome and spurious el quence with which the sentiments are overloaded. It in the history of times less ancient, and of transaction within the compass of his own experience, that his min making no reference to the simple annals of Judea, an left free and unfettered to its own scope of splendid illo: dis-tration, manifests its peculiar power. In his Archæolog,

"Where souls do couch on flowers;" and a few leaves were gratefully plucked, to be cherished as memorials of this interesting visit. She had got over a secret unacknowledged fear of beholding the grave, and her mind became serene. We departed almost reluctantly from a spot which I had dreaded to approach in her company. From that hour her health improved ;-such was the happy effect of contemplating that which at a distance seemed so forbidding! The cause of this improvemen is obvious. Imagination was no longer on the stretch, and another proof was thus afforded, that

"To please the fancy, is no trifling good
Where health is studied; for, whatever moves
The mind with calm delight, promotes the just
And natural movements of the harmonious frame."
Morayshire, March, 1830.

JOSEPHUS AND HIS STYLE OF WRITING.
By William Tennant.

JOSEPHUS, of all the Jews the most celebrated for his genius and learning, was the son of Matthias, an honourable citizen of Jerusalem, who was connected, by descent, both with the regal and priestly branches, and hence transmitted to his son a twofold honour, that was doubly dear in the eyes of his fellow-citizens. His son soon

I heard the thunder growling in the skirts of night, and rolling its burden round on the dark heavy rooms of the west. Gross white mists were detached from the lowhung clouds, and crept lazily up the channels of the streams. Then came the sound of rain from over the southern fell, rushing and sonorous. It was altogether such a night as makes the traveller spur on to reach his inn, while he fancies, in the low-hung shadows, relieved by the incessant twinkling in the air, those shapes that blast the unwholesome night by blue forest or cave, or wide moorish fen, and his heart quails beneath the brooding sense of mysterious danger, of things dim and unreconciled, the helplessness of night, and the angry spirit of the storm.

Admonished by the above signs of the coming storm, I made for the door of my little hostelrie, and was on the point of entering, when the nearing voice of some one crying bitterly made me pause and turn. The person in distress I soon saw to be a little bareheaded and barefooted boy, who came running along the twilight road, and who, as I questioned him of the cause of his crying, gave me to understand that he had seen the fire in the west, and was horribly frightened, as he had yet two miles to run to get to his home. He had been sent, he farther told me, to a town some miles off, to fetch a surgeon for a gentleman who had fallen from his horse, but had been unsuccessful in his quest, as the only practitioner of the place was not at home, nor would be at home that night. On hearing this, I instantly determined, as I had instruments in my pocket, to follow the boy, and see the bruised gentleman, to whom I might be of some service. To satisfy my hostess, lest I should not return to her house that night, was the work of the same minute; and instantly I was off with the boy, who, though the steepdown rain now began to smooth his dun and weatherbleached hair, and almost in the same moment to drop from his long forelock, whilst the fire-haunted shadows darkled against his face, yet seemed so glad at my accompanying him, as to have forgot all his fears. Despite the horrors of the storm, we soon reached a small range of thatched cottages, near which, the boy told me, the accident had happened; and a horse tied at the door of one of them, led us at once to the proper place. On entering, I saw my patient, a gentleman apparently about thirty years of age, leaning back pale and exhausted upon a bed, and ministered to by a woman far advanced in life, whose

IN THREE PARTS.

By Thomas Aird, Author of " Religious Characteristics," appearance, notwithstanding the visible poverty of her

&c.

present habitation, seemed to speak of better days that she had seen. I introduced myself as a graduate in medicine, who, having heard of the accident, and their messenger's want of success in procuring the aid of a surgeon, had volunteered his services if necessary. The gentleman, on hearing this, sat up and tendered me his arm, which I instantly bled. I then bound up his head, which I found bruised on one side almost to a fracture, and cut by the stones of the road, upon which he had fallen. The storm had now subsided, and my patient, contrary to my advice and the earnest entreaties of his hostess, expressed his determination to ride home without delay, as his house was distant only three miles. After giving the little messenger, who lived in the next cottage, his due guerdon, he turned to the kind old woman, who fluttered over his departure with an earnest blessing, and an entreaty to know of his welfare on the morrow, and said to her "I will not offend you by speaking of remuneration, but God bless you for your kindness; I will see you often. Yet, meanwhile, may I request to know to whose motherly care I have been so much indebted at this time?"

"I was proud of the name of Bonnington," was the old woman's answer, "when I was a wife, and the mother of my own Harry and Emily; but they are all gone from me long ago.”

is account of the divisions that rent, tormented, and diseopled the palaces of Herod; of the death of King Agrippa; in his Jewish war, his description, most maserly in its kind, of the siege of Jotapata; of the attack n the streets of Gamala; of the entrance of the Iduneans by night, during a storm, into Jerusalem; of the aval battle on the sea of Genesareth; of the captures of he fort of Masada; of the bloody conflicts in and round bout Jerusalem; of the triumphal entry into Rome of Vespasian—are not surpassed either by Livy or any other Greek or Latin historian. He is undoubtedly the most ublime of all historians; his genius being decidedly Jewsh, and partaking largely of that fervency and soaring uperiority which characterise the writings of his extrardinary countrymen. Perhaps he is too sublime for hisory: his narrative flows along in epic pomp and dignity, roken sometimes into bursts of tragic vehemence: it is ike the long and richly-flowing river of gold and silver, o which he himself likens the triumphal entry of Vesasian. As his narrative part is thus splendid, the ar(umentative portion, consisting of his orations, is, in a orresponding degree, eloquent; more discursory, peraps, but not displaying less ratiocinative invention than he speeches of Livy. Indeed, of the Greek or Roman historians, Livy is the only one that may pretend to rival im in vivacity or splendour; and, if the Roman histo ian at all exceeds him, it is in the compression, the conlensed force and invigorated majesty, of the language, raher than in the brightness and magnificent flow of the mages. Of modern historians, or of modern writers, there is only one great living name that can aspire to an quality with him, or with the historian of Rome, in vivid expansion of imagery, all-illuminating splendour, and graphic energy of language.

|

As connected with the Old and New Testaments, and is throwing light on the incidents, characters, manners, and localities noted in Scripture record, the works of Josephus cannot be too much valued by a Bible student. | They are by far the best commentary and expositor one can use in reading the Old and New Testaments. Devongrove, Clackmannanshire,

26th February, 1830.

THE APOLOGY.

Speak of me as I am: nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice.-Othello.

PART I.

ONE afternoon in May last, being on a pedestrian exarsion through the south of Scotland, I was overtaken by a violent thunderstorm, which drove me for shelter to a small village inn. It was evening ere the tempest reased, and judging it inexpedient to pursue my walk farther that night, I set myself to look for some amusement to help me to beguile a tedious hour or two. After watching from my window awhile the village children, some of whom busied themselves in damming up the little water-courses by the wayside, while others churned with their bare feet the puddles on the road, I sauntered forth, and found my way into a small garden behind the house. The warm reeking rains had freshened and broadened every leaf; plant and tree stood surcharged with moistare, and seemed perceptibly to vegetate into more luxuriant growth; the lizard rustled through the green fresh grass, and the loathsome toad trailed his lazily stretching limbs from the fat loamy bed of rank weeds. By degrees, however, I became unobservant of outward things, and fell into a reverie of "sweet and bitter fancies," which kept me pacing, I know not precisely how long, the oozing walks of that remote garden. I was startled and aroused by a gleam of lightning, and, after listening a few seconds,

At this her wounded guest started as if he had been struck to the heart with a barbed arrow, and, trembling like a leaf on a high tree, he turned half round imploringly

to me; then, fixing his gaze on the old woman before him, he gasped forth, “Good God! what has brought me into this house! Do you know who I am, my kind hostess?" "I think not, sir. But I am afraid you are yet very

unwell."

"No wonder no wonder, if you be indeed his mother -that boy Harry Bonnington's. Dare you guess who is in your house this moment ?" "Mysterious Providence!" said the woman, returning his gaze with equal intensity; "who is this one before me?"

"My name was Hastings once; do you know me now?" cried my patient, sinking back on a chair, and covering his face with his left hand, whilst he extended the other. "There is the bloody right hand,” he added, “which made you childless."

There was here a deep pause. The unhappy man sat with both his hands upon his face. Before him stood the bereaved mother, perplexed in the extreme, yet evidently struggling to overcome her strong emotions.

"If God has brought about this meeting, unhappy man, to me," she at length said, "let us each be wiser and better by it. This cannot be without perfect repentance and forgiveness; and we must mind our respective parts. What would you have me say to you else?"

"In truth, I do not know," was his answer. "I could tell you, indeed, why my face has long been pale; but it more becomes me to go out of your presence without any parade of repentance. It was an awful deed, thou poor mother! But yet the blow that has ruined us all was not meant for him."

"So she told me, my child Emily, when she pled for you before this heart, and gave a mitigated name to your offence. We are two in a strange relation to each other; but if both may find the same mild Judge in Heaven at last, why should we farther distress each other on earth? Yours is the guilt of dreadful rashness, and mine is the sore bereavement."

"Will you give me a pledge of your forgiveness ?" asked he eagerly.

"Name it," said the woman, evidently surprised. "I have no mother," proceeded the unhappy gentleman; "and never knew a true mother's care; I have no relatives; I am a desolate man; and would have you become a mother even to me. And if I might be something like a son to you, it would give me a taste of happiness; and I owe the duty to you a thousand times. I have wealth enough, and I think I could fulfil some offices of kind attention. Now, if you judge me aright, if you care not over much for the opinion of the world, if your heart can bear the sad memorial which my presence must ever be, will you become a mother to me? Will you give me a chance for a little joy, by allowing me to redress somewhat the wrongs I have done you, in cutting off the natural stay of your age?"

"You are strangely generous," said the old woman, after a pause; “yet I believe not the less truly so. Your proposal, however, is so striking, that I confess myself afraid to take it."

66

"I dare not urge you farther at this time," said the gentleman; but will you permit me to see you again ere long, and renew my request?"

"6

"God's best peace be with you, sir!" said the old woman, in a kind voice, yet not answering his question directly. Amen," said the gentleman, and added nothing farther, beyond taking a simple leave of his hostess, who followed us to the door, and assisted me in helping him to his horse.

"And now," said he, turning to me with a kind smile, "what must be done with you? whither shall we dismiss you?"

·

"I believe I must see you safely home," was my reply; or, in other words, I must tax your hospitality for a night. My name is Calvert, and, if you please, Doctor is a good travelling addition."

"My name is Bremner," said my companion, "and we are brothers, it seems, in the profession. But I trust you will never need my services as you have kindly given me yours to-night. As for your proposal to accompany me home, it is exactly what I wished, and I trust we shall not part so soon."

I made it my farther duty, as we proceeded, to keep my hand upon his horse's bridle, lest any of the occasional flashes which were yet visible far off might provoke the spirited animal to any sudden plunge, which his rider, in his present exhausted state, was less able to guard against and in this way we went on till we reached Mountcoin the place of Bremner's residence.

On the morrow, instead of taking leave of my new friend, I agreed to stay with him a month; before the expiry of which term, I had the pleasure of seeing Mr Bonnington's first scruples yield to his generous solicita tions, and her rest set up for life at his house. It was lofty and heart-touching sight to see him act towards he in all respects like a good son; and his attentions wer specially valuable, as her health was very feeble.

On the evening previous to the proposed day of my de parture from Mountcoin, Dr Bremner voluntarily opener up to me the following particulars of his life. (Part II. in our next.)

STEPHEN KEMBLE AND THE SON OF NEPTUNE. AN ANECDOTE.

KEMBLE was perhaps the best Sir John Falstaff whiel the British stage ever saw. His fine countenance and hi commanding figure fitted him admirably for the part, fo Sir John was a "proper man ;" while the natural protu berance in front made him the very beau ideal of the in veterate sack-drinker. The following anecdote was tol me by a person who frequently heard Kemble tell it him self.

Kemble was performing with a company in a seapo town somewhere on the coast of England, when a shij which had been long at sea, came into port, and sent he crew on shore, with plenty of money, and full of fun an frolic, to enjoy themselves, after their long cruise, accor ing to their various tastes and pursuits. "One of th kidney" found his way to the box office of the Theatr which at this time was open only three nights a-wee and, enquiring for the Manager, told him, with all ti characteristic bluntness of a British sailor, that he" wan ed a play!"" Very well," replied the Manager, "con to-morrow evening, my good fellow, and you shall ha two plays." This, however, did not at all accord wit Jack's fancy. He was not disposed to wait till to-morro evening; he wanted his play performed that night. Aft a good deal of wrangling, and seeing that the sailor w bent on having his own way, the Manager touched up the expenses, telling him that it would require a conside able sum of money. "Money!" said Jack, with a look the most infinite contempt, Damme, how much w it take?"" About thirty pounds," answered Stephe Jack said not a word, but, drawing his purse from bosom, counted down thirty guineas in the calmest ma ner possible. The bargain was now of course fairly e cluded, but a question remained to be asked. "WI play should you like performed, sir?" said the obsequi Manager, as he pocketed the gold pieces with evident tisfaction. "Play!" said Jack, chuckling at the idea being "sir'd." "Let me see. Ay, ay, give us Falst Sir John Falstaff-You have a fellow here who does t devilish well. Ay, ay, sir," said the tar, with incr sing good humour, as he ran over his theatrical remir

66

discourse in full, as I dislike the glaring and shamefaced mod I have written the expletives with which the sal'or garnishes

manner of printing them thus-"d-me." At the same time regret, in common with all who think rightly on the subject, t the general character of the British sailor should be so interwo with this inveterate habit and degrading vice.

66

ences,

"let me have the old boy with the round fore-Nature have begun “ their work of gladness to contrive,”* castle, built like a Dutch lugger, and lurching like a Spa- who would sit still within doors, nor hasten, at the earliest nish galleon in a heavy sea. Damme! give me Sir John call, to participate in the general joy? Not IFalstaff! What a prime commodore the old fellow would have made had his worship lived in them times. Shiver my timbers! but I could have sailed the whole 'varsal world with him, and stood by him in wreck or fight, lamme, to the last plank!" Having pronounced this eulogium on the character of stout Sir John, the affair was closed, and all the arrangements made to Jack's complete satisfaction. One clause in particular was most pointedly urged, that not a single soul was to be in the house but himself! "Remember," said Jack, "not a lubber of them must be seen, either in the hold, the shrouds, or the tops, or, by the Diomede! I'll have him keelhauled by the fiddlers!" So saying, the tar departed, mightily pleased with his bargain, with himself, and with the whole world. Night came; a few of the orchestra people took their accustomed places; the house was well lighted, and every thing in readiness, when, just at the hour, Jack burst into the lower gallery, and, running across the seats, much in the way in which he would have run along the jolly boat, he placed himself, with hat on one side, and arms akimbo, in the centre of the front bench. By way of overture, he called for "Jack's Delight" and the " Sailor's Hornpipe;" and these being played to his liking, he bawled out, "Now, my lads, clew up your mainsail, and pipe all hands aboard!" The curtain immediately drew up, and the play of" Henry Fourth, Part First," commenced. Jack sat out the first scene with a good deal of patience; but when his favourite made his appearance in the second scene, along with the Prince,

"For I have loved the rural walk, through lanes Of grassy swarth, close cropp'd by nibbling sheep, And skirted thick with intertexture firm

HIGHLAND SCENERY AND PEASANTRY.
By the Editor of the Inverness Courier.

WHO has not felt his heart expand and his fancy kindle at the first warm suns and cloudless skies which tell us of the coming spring? Rough and variable as the season has hitherto been, we have now a glimpse of "better days." The snow has disappeared from all but the loftiest mountains and deepest dells-the sun is not only visible, but is felt. A new spirit has gone forth, as certain of our reformers say; and when all the powers of

Of thorny boughs; have loved the rural walk
O'er hills, through valleys, and by rivers' brink,
E'er since a truant boy I pass'd my bounds."

Dear as are the inland scenes of merry England, which none knew better to paint than her beloved Cowper,with all her happy homes "bosomed high in tufted trees,"

her rich, level meadows, enclosed by well-kept hedges, and bounded by brooks, cottages, and alder-trees-what are they in the power to soothe, to elevate, and purify the soul, compared with the silent majesty and sterner beauty of Loch Ness, now spread before me, with her vast expanse of deep and waveless water, her towering and variegated rocks, her numerous glens, opening up like narrow gullies or ravines, yet filled with smoking huts, falling streams, and waving trees—a wild, and beautiful, and populous solitude!

"Three cheers our gallant seaman gave!"

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The scenery of the Highlands is usually described after the style and fashion of British painters, by pourtraying the most striking and prominent objects, without regard to those minor graces and embellishments which soften and adorn, if they do not individualize, the scene. By a few powerful and masterly touches, the leading traits are "bodied forth," a general resemblance is attained, and neither artist nor author seeks for more. One splendid exception, indeed, is to be found in our literature-the poetry of Sir Walter Scott, which has familiarized thousands with every bush, and brake, and dell within the range of the Troin a tone which would have drowned a dozen Brahams. sachs. But there the spell rests-it extends not farther Sir John bowed low to this token of marked approbation, north. Hence, though strangers, visiting our scenery, are and the play proceeded, while Jack sat with his whole prepared to gaze upon mountains, capt by mist or snow, soul in his eyes, enjoying the rare humour of the “unimi-and to luxuriate by the side of lakes and waterfalls, few tated and inimitable Falstaff." He continued in evident anticipate wandering through wildernesses of native birch delight as long as Sir John remained on the stage, but and oak, or of witnessing the myriads of Alpine plants and whenever he made his exit, the play was performed in shrubs which here climb the loftiest steeps, and lend_an dumb show, and amid a torrent of reproaches from "the indescribable sweetness and beauty to the landscape. Standaudience," who kept bawling at the top of his voice to his ing by these lonely rocks at sunrise, or in a calm summer Grace of Northumberland and other distinguished cha- evening, and contrasting their bare and rugged peaks with racters." Avast there! sheer off, ye lubbers! Belay the profusion of green, glossy plants, flowering shrubs, and your jawing tackle, you there with the carving knife! tangled brushwood, which clothe their sides and cluster Sheer off! sheer off! Bring Falstaff in, and be damned round their bases, a fresh wild fragrance is breathed from to you!" Thus did Jack alternately applaud and condemn cliff and dell, a thousand times more delicious than the during the whole performance. When it was finished, richest perfumes. This exuberance, though most predoand the green "mainsail" had been once more dropped minant in the inland glens and passes, is seldom far dis"on deck," he rose and was preparing to depart, when one tant. Even in the most dreary and desolate tracts, Naof the players met him at the door of the gallery, and in- ture, as it were, redeems herself, and nooks and slips, formed him that all was not over, for that the "After-watered by some solitary rill or spring, blossom forth, like piece" was yet to be performed. "Is Falstaff to be in the "happy island" amidst the Sands of Lybia, to humanit?""No, sir."-"Oh! then, damn the afterpiece! ize the desert. In the midst of the gorgeous fertility of Good night, good night!" And so saying, he walked out, the south, these oases of the wild would bloom undistinperfectly satisfied with his thirty guineas' worth. guished, but here their soothing and vivifying power is deeply felt. They are (speaking fancifully) like the dews and flowers of Milton's genius sprinkling the hoar austerity of his creed; or like that exquisite touch of tenderness and beauty with which Shakspeare relieves the dense horrors brooding over Macbeth's castle

Stephen Kemble used to relate this anecdote with infinite glee and humour; and it certainly affords an amusing trait illustrative of the character of a class of men whose equals in bravery and absurdity cannot be found on the face of the globe.

"This guest of summer,

The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,
By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breast
Smells wooingly here."

One only drawback is felt in traversing these moun< tain scenes. Go where we will, we meet with the low black huts of the peasants," murky dens," as Johnson calls them, which never fail to convey a dull and painful feeling to the mind. How different from the snug, cleanly, white-washed cottages of England! Nor is this impression illusory. The condition even of the crofter, or small farmer, is inferior to that of the English peasant,

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