and, what is worse, not one of the artists, as far as I can learn, has yet availed himself of it.

The old house of Gosford, where the noble proprietor resides, is a large irregular building, with all that air of neatness conveyed by white-washing, surrounded by various small enclosures formed by tall clipped hedges, that give an appearance of snugness to the whole. Immediately in front, on the opposite side of a lawn, of no great extent, stands the main body of the new house-a

and he is destitute of the consolation, poor as it is, which the latter possesses, that his old age will be sheltered, or his offspring reared, by the humane institutions of his country. In winter, too, his exertions are paralyzed by the rigours of the climate, and during this stern blockade, confined day after day in a dark smoky hut, destitute of the means of employment, and often of the necessaries of life, his situation must be deplorable in the extreme. Very frequently, in such cases, if money can be begged or borrowed, or raised by joint contribution, smuggling is re-building of more architectural pretensions than beauty. sorted to; and though much has been done to suppress It was built by the late Earl, but never completed; and, this illegal traffic, it still holds undisputed sway in the as there is some defect about the materials, probably never wilder straths and glens. The nature of the country offers will. The length of the house is too great in proportion such facilities for carrying it on, and all classes of the to its depth; the eastern façade is plain and heavy; the people, high and low, are so partial to the beverage, that western more ornamented, and, but for the excessive one need not wonder at its continuance. In many places, slenderness of the pilasters and antae, well designed. The the exciseman dare not venture his neck among the cliffs old house, plain as can well be conceived, but massive and dens where Donald is at work; frequently, too, like and solid, on the one hand, and this unsuccessful attempt the mole, he labours under ground, and in winter the at something fine on the other, are no unapt representaheights and fords are impassable. The only chance of tions of our British noblemen in the earlier and later peseizure which the revenue officer has, is to intercept the riods of last century. The former proud and dignified, yet men and women as they sally forth from the "bothy," withal affecting a sturdy deportment, that distinguished to vend the spirits,-a mean catchpoll employment, yet the wealthy independent baron from the empty-pocketed, one which the noblemen and gentlemen of Scotland, of a title-gilded creature, whose only element is a court. The former day, thought not unsuited to the genius of Burns. latter more highly educated, and attempting to superinWith all his left and right-handed policy, Donald grows duce upon himself that Continental polish, of which God not rich-" with all his thrift he thrives not." The and Nature never meant an Englishman to be susceptible. elder cottars, and those burdened with large families, may The two houses stand there as monuments of a change in be said to vegetate rather than live, and hundreds are at the tone and manners of society. this moment, I am persuaded, suffering hardships and privations, at which, in the sister country, Captain Rock and his followers would rise en masse. Still they are strongly attached to their native hills: let them but remain in their huts, and they ask no more. The feudal chain is broken, but the force of habit and early associations bind the Highlander as firmly to his native strath as if it were impossible for him to gain a subsistence elsewhere. Perhaps this is but another proof of the abjectness of his condition; so low has he sunk, that even the desire to rise, to enjoy, or to excel, is dead or stagnant. It is only, however, in large crowded cities, that the poor are truly miserable. When men are congregated together in large masses, and every avenue to labour seems closed, then the wretched being whom want is staring in the face, feels the utter helplessness of his situation, and becomes the prey of despair. Then it is that the iron enters his soul, and deeds are sometimes done at which humanity shudders. But the Highlander is never so wholly destitute. On the hill-side, bleak though it be, he sees around him the means of future subsistence-the clements of humble comfort. Spring will again unlock the stores of the earth, and winter withdraw the last of his lingering forces. Then, when our burns and streams, instead of being choked with snow-wreaths, and silenced by frost, are again murmuring by bank and brae-when the larch and birch trees are full of leaf, and every broomy knowe," moistened with genial showers, is re-entering a room where there are a number of works of dolent of spring, the poor Highlander forgets his load of suffering, and, hoping all will yet be well, exults in the change which scatters joy among the rational and irra

66

tional creation.

Inverness, April 2d.

GOSFORD-HOUSE AND ITS PAINTINGS. OUR readers probably are not aware that the Earl of Wemyss, with a spirit and liberality worthy of his rank, has intimated to the artists of Edinburgh, through Allan, that they are welcome to visit, and even to take copies from, his pictures. Had he refused such a permission on application being made for it, or had he even waited to be requested, we should have heard enough of innuendoes about wealthy men who shut up from the man of taste treasures they themselves cannot appreciate. As it is, scarcely any one knows of the generous offer;

The new house is, of course, not inhabited; and the three large public rooms, which constitute almost the whole body of the house, are occupied by the late Earl's large collection of paintings. These rooms-three in numberare very large and beautifully proportioned. Left, as they now are, it is difficult to say how they might look with the necessary additions of carpets, ottomans, chandeliers, and all the other requisites of magnificent apartments. At present their bare floors and white ceilings have rather a desolate appearance; and the gilding along the springs of the arches contrasts tawdrily with the whole. The pictures likewise suffer from each room having a large side window instead of a top light.

It would be absurd, or worse, to pretend, on the strength of one visit, to appreciate such a numerous collection of paintings. Some pictures there are which arrest us at once, and impress us more deeply the longer we examine them. Some there are which blind even the most prac tised connoisseur at first to their inherent emptiness; and others, at first rather repulsive, win upon us insensibly, like a homely but amiable woman. Besides, some thirty of the best pictures have spent a winter in town, and have not been unpacked since their return. If, however, the reader do not think an old man's prattle tedious, he may follow me through the different apartments. 1 begin with the dining-room:

The first painting that arrests the eye, which, on first

art, wanders in uncertainty from one to another, is a cru cifixion by Imperiali. On closer inspection, we find it a respectable, but by no means a masterly painting. It is only when we return to the door, that we discover it is the prominent manner in which the crucifix stands out from the dense body of darkness, that struck us. It is a kind of panoramic painting. The next is a painting by Gentileschi, over the fire-place-Bathsheba in the bath. It is in the bold, unsubdued style of the Italian masters, where no one colour fades into another. The drawing is less powerful. There is a finicalness in most of the attitudes. Even Bathsheba, although the trunk is finely drawn, and truly coloured, is not quite exempt from this. The easiest figure is the negro standing behind her. There is in this room a picture of the triumph of Constantine, attributed to Julio Romano; but, to judge by the style and execution, it must be the work of some earlier artist. There is also a “stag-hunt," by Snyders, re

pecting the authenticity of which we decline giving an pinion, until further examination. Four portraits, by pagnoletto, are characterised by an exaggerated contrast f light and shade, that would almost lead us at first view o set them down for mere daubs. A closer inspection hows, however, transparent colouring and fine drawing, vith occasionally (as, for example, in the portrait of the tarry Galileo and his woes) great nobleness of expresion. A landscape, near the Bathsheba, is said to be by Salvator Rosa; and, whether genuine or not, is valuable, or its mellow tone, and admirable disposition of light nd shade. The lover of broad and rich humour will ind a high treat in the Flemish Epicure of Jordaens. His face, broad and round, literally shines (under the inluence of music, rich dishes, and noble wines) with the il of gladness.

The Saloon contains some pieces of sculpture, which lo not afford much room for remark. There are two ible paintings, of which I could neither learn nor guess he subjects, nor the master; for they are evidently from he same hand. Not the least interesting portion of the contents of this apartment, are some drawings by Sir Ro. bert Strange.

66

The hair, moustaches, and beard, are of the softest texture; and their beautiful arrangement is evidently natural and involuntary. The face is all thought and feeling-all repose, and full of enjoyment—yet indicating a capability of exertion far beyond ordinary mortals.

THE WRECK OF A WORLD.-A DAY-DREAM,
By H. G. B.

Some say that gleams of a remoter world
Visit the soul in sleep-that death is slumber,
And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber
Of those who wake and live.-I look on high;
Has some unknown omnipotence unfurl'd
The veil of life and death? or do I lic
In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep
Spread far around and inaccessibly
Its circles?

SHELLEY.

THE impression it left upon my mind will never be effaced, yet I cannot describe it. It was a vision of fearful, but glorious sublimity. I know not whether it was a waking or a sleeping dream; it came upon me for the moment with all the overwhelming force of reality. There are mysteries in the unfathomable soul of man, over which, either in the calm of noon, or the solitude of night, we may well brood with awe, starting even from ourselves, as if we carried within us a spirit to whose omnipotence we were forced to bow, and over whose wild and wayward will we in vain attempted to assert an influence.

We now come to the drawing-room. The Vertumnus and Pomona of Rubens is a fine painting, but requires one far gone in the love of the art, not to be startled with the homely, though characteristic, features of the pair, and the anachronism of their dress. Near this is 66 a composition”—fruit and game by Snyders, figures by Rubens-worthy of a longer perusal than I could afford it. It was Sunday, and I was up by myself among the There are two Murillos-one, the flight into Egypt-the mountains. Not a human habitation was in sight, not other, St John, the good shepherd. Both have the artist's a human sound was floating on the hushed atmosphere. warm colouring and delicacy of tint. The figures in the But, through the deep stillness, a low thrilling voice former are exact copies of every-day life-there is no ele- appeared to fill all space, a voice that seemed an inherent vation about the expression. It would have been a gem, part of the creation, for ever ringing on the finer nerves had it merely undertaken to represent peasants rest-of sense, like the distant and dying hum of bees, or the ing;" but there wants that dignity and grace which we far-off murmur of the summer ocean. The more you require in the incarnate Deity and his mother. The St listened to convince yourself of the profound quiet of John is more ideal, and betrays a finer feeling of the animated nature, the more you were aware of a certain poetry of the art, than any other work of Murillo's that rushing noise,—the whirl, perhaps, of a revolving world, we have seen. The "Elijah, fed by ravens," of Teniers, or the audible breathing of every living blade of grass, is chiefly valuable, on account of the beautiful clear land- and humble flower, and majestic tree, and primeval foscape which we see through the mouth of the cave in rest. Or might it not be the invisible passing of ten which the prophet is seated. There is also in this room thousand souls, eternally moving on and on in two unina landscape by Claude Lorrain, of which I could speak terrupted currents-the one towards the heaven they “from morn till dewy eve;" but my limits will not ad- have gained, and the other to lighten up for a while the mit, and he must rest unnoticed, till I can devote a whole pure shrine of infantile bosoms? It matters not; it is a essay to himself. sound to be felt, not reasoned on. I threw myself down at random upon a spot unshadowed by a tree, green and bright, under the immediate eye of Heaven. I lay like a swimmer afloat upon his back in the blue solitude of some favourite bay. The mighty skies seemed rolling on above me, with their gorgeous cavalcades of cloud, tier after tier, in every great and fantastic shape that imagination coins,-palaces with domes of diamond and gold, immeasurable pyramids, thrones radiant with chrysolite, leviathans of the deep, monsters of the air, glo│rious and colossal forms of bards, and silver-haired prophets, and monarchs on their majestic steeds careering across the sun.

There now remain only two paintings, of which I intend to say any thing; and they are both portraits. There are, no doubt, paintings of this class, which have an independent value of their own but their chief interest arises from the completeness which they give to our ideas of distinguished characters. The pictures, at present alluded to, are a portrait of Masaniello of Naples, and what is said to be an original portrait of Shakspeare. The former is a full-length. Masaniello stands with a matchlock in his hand, and a silver sword by his side, in a dress of many and strongly-contrasted colours. His body is not bent-only slightly inclined forward. There is "a listening fear in his regard"-his eyes have the ferocity and Suddenly a change came over the face of the firmakeen watchfulness of the cat-his mouth wears a vacant ment. Its rainbow lights faded away. Its blue fields animal smile. The brow is lofty and commanding. The seemed to wither in the poisoned air. They grew pale, upper part of the face indicates capacious and powerful and yet paler; a filmy veil appeared to have been cast intellect the lower, strong animal passions. His story before them; and when I looked again, they had died forms the comment on it. He rescued his country like away into a wan and sickly white. The whole firmaa hero: he fell into habits of excess; and his followers ment was in rapid and tumultuous motion. The winds had to kill him, like a mad dog, lest he should do mis- were still speechless; the same dead repose pervaded nachief. I would give a good deal to know, upon good|ture; but far, far above me, the stormy rack was wheelauthority, that the other really is an original portrait of Shakspeare. It is just such a face as I could fancy him to have had. The brow is broad, high, and beautifully formed. The clear eyes beneath it swim in quiet delight. The mouth is rather large; the vermilion lips lie apart, indicating a quick perception of all pleasurable sensations.

ing round and round in its inextricable confusion. The brightness of the sun-lit empyrean had passed away for ever. Darker and darker;-every thing was quickly lapsing into gloom. Along the whole horizon my eye rested on the melancholy edge of a rising canopy of black. It spread upwards with a slow, regular, ominous

motion ;-upwards, still upwards, across the whole arch with a fierce and fiery glare. The solid earth heaved in of heaven. The light fled before it, but it pursued, and convulsive throes. The pyramids were rent asunder, and buried it up in its sullen folds. Not a ray, not a single the buried dead walked out. They were still dead, but ray was left; not one luminous particle floated through || their glazed eyes rolled horribly in mysterious meaning. infinite space. But a change had been wrought upon Their cerements fell spontaneously from them, and their my sense of sight. I could now distinguish objects in livid carcasses looked yet more horrible in the gloomy and the darkness, as well as I could do before in the light. dismal light. Their features were those of every nation and tribe that the sun had ever shone upon-the brown Arabian, the black African, the red Indian, and the white Frank. They formed themselves into a long, an interminable procession, and in the middle I could distinguish a bier covered with black. Upon it lay the body of one who had been alive for four thousand years—the wizard Time. He had witnessed the world's birth, and he had ceased to exist on that very hour in which it had been destroyed. They were carrying him to his tomb in eternity. They passed me, but I heard not the tread of their many feet; their lips moved, but the funeral chant came not to my ears. Perhaps it was the imperfection of my senses which cabined the powers of my soul. The meteor in the east moved on as if to meet them, flinging down at intervals a shower of dying stars. They journeyed away beyond the limits of sight, and all around me became again dim and uncertain. I saw no more. It was now evening-a thunder-storm was gathering on the mountains, and I hastened homewards.

I turned towards the earth, and looked round. I scarcely knew it to be the same as that on which I had lived. I could see for miles,-for leagues,-away through the deep obscurity that overshadowed it; but it was only one vast, unbroken, barren, lifeless waste. Its mountains, its woods, its streams, its cities, its moving and breathing things, were gone-gone like a cloud from the surface of a lake. Of all the human race, I only survived. The desolation had been complete-too complete, too terrible for tears. I felt that a curse was upon me -the curse of loneliness. And the silence-that dreadful silence-worse, a thousand times worse than the roar of earthquakes, still continued. There was nothing to break it. The air had lost the attribute of motion; the instinct of life had perished, and there was not even the stirring of a growing flower to relieve the ear, though but with the mockery of sound.

These wild fancies, they say, are often the prognostics of coming madness. If so the decrees of destiny must be fulfilled.

"WHAT'S A' THE HURRY ?"

Whither was I now to flee? Was I doomed to a wretched immortality, wandering over a shipwrecked and deserted world?—All at once a disembodied shape passed by me. For the first time fear fell upon my soul. The curtain of immateriality was withdrawn, and I stood in the visible presence of the mysterious dead, whose nature was different from mine, and in whose feelings I had no sympathy. Perhaps they were the A REMINISCENCE OF THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. evil spirits of the former world, who, now that it had been changed into a charnel-house, were condemned still to trick Shepherd, was, some fifteen or twenty years ago, a My excellent friend, now generally known as the Etflit along with it as it rolled its spectral and rejected form member of the Forum, then a popular debating society. through the remotest regions of chaos. I was left in He had taken it into his head that he was an orator, and, doubt, in ignorance, and I trembled. Shadow after sha-in order to give greater effect to his speech, had planted dow appeared in the distance, came rapidly through the dim air, and glided by me. All were of gigantic magnitude, and frequently a wild unnatural expression was on their unsubstantial countenances. Their numbers, too, seemed perpetually increasing, and the speed at which they went was becoming greater. It was a tremendous, but magnificent pageant. Some were mounted upon vi. sionary steeds, black as ebony; others moved on in chariots and triumphal cars, like Roman generals at a triumph; unreal ships came sailing through the abyss above me, with all their white sails set, and apparently full in the wind. Noiselessly they came, and noiselessly they again vanished afar off. They were followed by prodigious birds, larger a thousand times than the South American condor, who soared in solitary pomp away into the

darkness.

I wandered over the illimitable desert, and these shapes and sights of awe grew familiar to me. Unexpectedly, like flakes in a snow-storm when its fury is wellnigh spent, they became less frequent and less confused. At length I saw no more. A faint red light, as if diffused from a few glimmering lamps that hung far up in the black concave, spread a dim sepulchral glare around me. I looked, and found that I was on a boundless plain of ruins, stumbling over huge fragments hid among the rank and withered grass. Heaped together in strange overthrow, I recognised the fallen towers of Athens, of Tyre, and of Balbec, the crumbling fanes of Jerusalem and of Babylon, the eternal pyramids, the sculptured obelisks, the mutilated sphinxes, and the jasper tombs of Palmyra, of Memphis, and of Thebes. They were all cast from their once immovable bases, and like the statues and images of a sacked city, they lay prostrate along the earth, disfigured, broken, dishonoured, and neglected. It was a world's churchyard, and these were the monuments that were piled upon the grave of man. I could see them all in the dim lurid light. Suddenly a meteor broke forth, far away in the east,

himself in a conspicuous and commanding situation in the
gallery. The church (in Carrubber's Close) was crowded
to excess. The President had proposed, and I had opened,
the question;-it was, as I well remember, upon the com-
parative happiness of the Married and Single State. Hogg
was then unmarried, and a stanch antagonist. I had
I advocated was not unpopular.
espoused the side of matrimony, and found that the cause
For a space, his appearance, though somewhat doric and
Hogg rose in reply.
uncouth, was rather imposing, and he dwelt amongst
of the Gudeman of Auchtermuchty. I began, in fact, to
"squalling weans and scolding Kates" with all the address
fear that the audience was disposed to go along with him,
when, all at once, he paused, and, after some instants of
breathless suspense, pulled from his pockets the contents
occupied a situation in the body of the church, having ob-
of his seemingly extempore address. A gentleman, who
served the pause, without seeing the occasion of it, and
imagining that the speaker had stopped as a mill pauses —
from the want of an encouraging moving force-exclaimed,
in a tone and manner ludicrously resembling those of the
orator-"Go on, honest man!" Hogg coolly snuffed the
candle, which was attached to the adjoining pillar, and,
opening out his papers slowly and deliberately, said, with
the utmost composure, "What's a' the hurry?”

When I see the whole world agog, and a-drive, and a-push, and a-struggle, in every direction into which perverted genius has sent it a wool-gathering, I am ever and anon disposed to exclaim, with my old friend Hogg,— "What's a' the hurry ?”

heartily agree with the sentiments of the Westminster Reviewer in this particular:

"We find, in the letters of Lord Byron to Mr Dallas, Mr Hodgson, and Mr Gifford, replies to expostulations and arguments which these gentlemen had addressed to him on the subject of his infidelity. Now, if any of these gentlemen, after his death, had lamented his infidelity in writing of him to the public, it would have been consistent with their conduct towards him during his life. But in his letters to Mr Moore, and in all Mr Moore's account of their intercourse, there is not a vestige of any expostulation or argument on the subject addressed to him by Mr Moore. He, therefore, comes forward now with a very ill grace, saying that of Lord Byron, after his death, which there is no evidence to show, and not the least reason to believe, he ever said to him during his life. We think it quite of a piece with Mr Moore's general system of acquiescence with the influential in all its forms, to conclude, that, having first courted the favour of Lord Byron by silence, at least, on the one band, he now courts that of the public by talk on the other. The staple commodity of the present age in England,' says Lord Byron himself, is cant: cant moral, cant religious, cant political; but always cant.' How much of this staple commodity there may be in Mr Moore's lamentations, we shall leave our readers to judge. Lord Byron's letters to Mr Moore contain not a syllable of replication to any shadow of an expressed solicitude on the subject of his infidelity. It was assuredly very unkind in Mr Moore not even to offer his hand to extricate him from the labyrinth in which he was bewildered,'-'the eclipse in which he was labouring;' more especially as, from the confidence with which Mr Moore ascribes error to Lord Byron, he must be himself in the possession of something very nearly approaching the infallibility of the Catholic church. A man cannot say, unhesitatingly, that another is grossly wrong, unless in the confidence that he himself is perfectly right. We think it, therefore, a very unfriendly measure on his part to have withheld his short and easy method' from his deistical friend, while he was yet living and able to profit by it; and now to come forward shaking his head over him, and pelting his infidel memory with a hailstorm of metaphors, by way making a good orthodox presentment of himself in the eyes of the religious community. And we do not think that any direct-dealing man, be his religious opinions what they may, can admire the figure which Mr Moore makes on this occasion."

of

A VERY able and interesting account of the internal structure of the Sturgeon was read by Dr Craigie; in the course of which he exposed several errors that Dr Munro, secundus, and Sir Everard Home, have committed in their anatomical details of this fish. In the absence of preparations and drawings, it would be a vain attempt to render Dr Craigie's paper intelligible to the public.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

LINES FOR THE EYE OF MR JAMES HOGG, SOME-
TIMES TERMED THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.
[OUR readers will recollect, that we some time ago published some
highly poetical lines on the living bards of Britain, which were
so contrived that they appeared to come from the pen of Mr David
Tweedie. We have since ascertained that they were the produc-
tion of our friend the Ettrick Shepherd, and that Mr Tweedie has
been in a state of high excitement and most just indignation ever
since he saw them. He has at last, however, forwarded to us a

reply, in which he certainly gives the Shepherd a Roland for his
Oliver, and all we wish is, that he had paid the postage from the
Crook Inn. But poets continually forget these minor details.
ED.]

Dark avengers
YE powers of retribution!
Of innoce ice and genius degraded,

Assist my labouring muse,
Assist my quill!
That, like the sovereign trout of Tallo's flood,
Struggles as dragged out by the rude horse hair,—
Assist me all, to hurl the vengeance due
On Hogg's audacious and devoted head!
Was it a little thing to take the name
Of one, his senior in the vale of life
And lists of fame, and tie a fiery brand
Unto his tail to set the world on flame,
As Samson with the foxes? To bring all
The host of poetasters on my head,
Who of them nothing knew? And, worst of all,
My best and warmest friend the Borderer,
He of the nut-brown hair and hollow voice,
Whom I esteem as brother. I have fish'd
With this same Hogg in Tweed, even to its fountains,
Core water, Froode, and Tallo's sluggish stream,
Yet nothing knew of him more than I saw—
A rash and inconsiderate plunging blockhead,
And a most awkward handler of his lister.

I've prick'd the salmon out by tens and dozens,
While Hogg stood scratching his audacious pate,
And cursing his bad luck.-Alas! how oft
Misconduct so is term'd! But, at the last,
I parted all and equal with poor Hogg,
Because I liked the lad. Nay, I have sat
Till midnight, teaching his unwieldy fingers
To touch the tuneful chords. Plague on the wight!
And this is my reward! With doggerel rhymes
To charge my guiltless name! Well, after all,
I grieve for Hogg, and wish he had not done it,
For I would rather be ten men's warm friend
Than one man's enemy. I charged him with it,
And, like an honest man, he did confess
The perverse deed.

He wanted some home-thrusts

At certain poets, and he chose to place
Old David of the Lin 'twixt them and him.
I call upon the literary world

To say if this was fair? But having now
Clear'd up this matter, here I let him see
How an old man can write with his own pen:
This is my own, and freely I subscribe it.
Linhouse, March 31.

DAVID TWEEDIE.

GEM OF MY SOUL.

By Laurence Macdonald.

GEM of my soul! my thoughts are still with thee
Where'er my steps may wander,-near or far,
O'er the blue mountains, or the trackless sea;
'Mid life's high revelry, 'mid this world's war,
Thou art the light-the solitary star
That gleams in beauty spiritually bright,

Shedding a ray divine 'mid things that mar
The harmony of life, till to my sight

Thou seem'st the soul of day, the spirit of the night!

Gem of my soul! the ocean's pearl, though pure,
Sinks into dimness on that neck of snow!
And I've beheld that spotless brow obscure

The brightest jewels that earth's mines can show;
And when thy soul, deep in those eyes, would glow
With glowing thought—with eloquence-with love!

They more than match'd the fairest things below, And even outshone the brightest things above, Mingling in one wild glance the eagle and the dove!

Gem of my soul! be ever what thou'rt now,
By genius polish'd, and by nature fair;
Were aught like thee accorded to my brow,
'Twould never be again the seat of care,