conscious. I have been meditating to-day on my instructors and predecessors in poetry; and especially on the greatest of the number, John Milton. You will hardly understand how strangely that man's name affects me. I think of none oftener, and yet I never hear it without pain. Chas. What? You cannot feel envy? Oh, no, my father; it is impossible! to their usual resolute tone; and when you visit my LATIN VERSIONS OF THE PSALMS; GEORGE BUCHANAN, ARTHUR JOHNSTON. By William Tennant. Ir is a circumstance most honourable to the classic muse of Scotland, that, of the poetical paraphrases, compiled in Latin, of the Psalms of David, the two held in principal estimation, either in our own country or on the Continent, are the productions of Scotsmen. That of Buchanan was hailed with commendation, shortly after of Arthur Johnston, which appeared about a century later, the Reformation, by the first scholars of Europe ;—that was preferred by many, in its simplicity, to the more astentatious production that preceded it; and, if it extruded not Buchanan altogether from his undivided post of possession in our schools, at least put in an equal and amicable claim for associated honours. Dryd. What is it you say, boy? Do you doubt me, as the world has done? No, sir: I am not envious; and the scribblers who have said so are as lying as they are unskilful. They have charged me with malice and envy, because I scourged Settle and Blackmore into their merited contempt; as if the lion envied the toad whom he treads on and tramples into dust! No; for Milton's genius I never entertained any sentiment but reverence: I knew him once; from his advice I received much benefit; from his example I ought to have received more. Listen to me what I tell you, I should not choose to publish to the world. I have done too much already to secure its esteem, and, before its votaries, old Bayes will keep up a bold face to the last. But to you, my son, I freely confess, that when I look back upon Milton's course, it seems a tacit reproach upon my own. His life, or, at least, that part of it which he so nobly employed, was spent in disgrace and poverty like mine: he, like me, had much to struggle with; but he overcame it all, while Werity, to make a reference of the copies to their original, cannot live over again! In instituting a comparative criticism between these all, and independently of the influence of name or authe rival and respectable productions, it is necessary, first of and to consider whether of the two transmits best to the And now that I have spoken of Milton, let me enjoy mind of the reader the genuine and peculiar spirit of the the pleasure of mentioning the design which I had formed great Master of the Hebrew lyre. For my own part, were I to read David in any other language than his own, of raising myself into the same class with him and his illusI confess that I should, in unhesitating preference, betake trious brethren. I was conversant, in part, with the same studies which formed his mind, and those of Spenser and myself to the Latin prose, or to the English prose version, either of which two represents more faithfully than can Chaucer these great men were my masters, as they were be done by any poetical paraphrase, the strong, striking, his; and I saw that in the school of chivalry there was room for lofty and poetical invention, to an extent far majestic peculiarities of the muse of Judea. For, if these from exhausted by all that has yet been attempted in it. peculiarities consist in sentiment, at once simple, comprest, It was my aim-But why need I speak of it? I had not beautiful, without ornament, without artifice, impressive fervent, and vehement,-in language, animated, natural, the resolution to go on working in the coldness of neglect, and sublime, shorn down to the most rigid restriction in to rear the fairy structure which I planned, and acquire regard to adjuncts and epithets-these qualities (the higha deathless renown as its founder: small encouragement est surely to be found in writing) are, I fear, not much o would have inspirited me, and that little was denied. Why be discovered in the versions of Buchanan or Johnston. should I speak of my designs? and yet it is an old man's Indeed, they cannot by any means be reckoned a living happiness, and it shall be indulged. My Epic Poem!-transcript of the great original; they are but a general The thought makes me young again! my old eyes are dim, and my hearing feeble, as if I listened from the depth of a grave; but the shapes which have blessed my mind are still present with it, and in my imagination there is no old age, no decay, no mortality!-My Epic! -King Arthur!—The Round Table !-Let me be silent awhile, my son, and enjoy the pictures which the names bring up before me. They are undefined, thronged, and fleeting, but lively and gorgeous in shape and colouring, as if they were painted on the evening skies; and happy, oh, most happy, am I while I gaze on them. They are yonder, like a Roman procession of triumph :-enchanted castles, golden palaces, and gardens overhanging witchlakes or thundering rivers---crowned and mailed knights, riding through the shade of black silent forests-abbeys and cells, filled with the voice of prayers and anthemsthe tented battle-field, with its grove of blazoned banners and glittering spears-and the lamp-lit half-seen chamber, where the necromancer does his midnight rites of power. It is a wilderness, a chaos of ancient and chivalous splendour, rich with the mysterious presence of antiquity-the presence which dwells on the ruined tower, and the mossy arch or temple; and the superior intelligences which preside over and inspire the scene, appear as if they waited but my command, to rise and mingle visibly amongst its inhabitants!-Fie on me, foolish old man! I am a very child!-Let it go!-And it has past away, like my youthful hopes, like my lost and valueless existence !-I can say no more on this subject: leave me, Charles, for the present. I do not always think thus gloomily: perhaps an hour's repose may restore my spirits and unfaithful resemblance, marred into dissimilitude by the gawds and trinkets of heathenism, that perpetually incongruous garnishments, adorned and adulterated with remind the reader more of Mount Parnassus and the Roman Capitol, than of the mountain" that stands most beautiful." Of the two writers, however, Buchanan must be considered the more unfaithful, and that, principally, artificial; his genius, diffusive and rhetorical as it was, because he is most eloquent, copiously redundant, and being, from these excellencies, or, it may be, these defects, less fitted than Johnston's to express, in brief and powerful phrase, the sublimity of the hymns of Zion. Of all Scotch, that of Buchanan is the most verbose; it is, in the versions of the Psalms, whether Latin, or English, er fact, rather an illustratory commentary in resounding verse, than a poetical translation; and if it has more sonorous and princely majesty than Tate and Brady's, it suitable imagery, more unnecessary and endless circumhas, in return, more verbosity, more extraneous and unlocution. In proof of this, we may only refer to the introductory verses of the 23d, 49th, and 73d Psalms, and and beautiful thoughts of the original are but dimly to be to the whole of the 19th and 130th, where the simple recognised through the elaborate and immense superabundance of words that overwhelm them. He is also as suredly not to be acquitted of blame in using, as he does, so many phrases borrowed from heathen mythology and In the first seven beautiful verses of this Psalm, there are, m Hebrew, but 77 words; reckoning all the affixes and suffixes; in Bpressed within three or four short lines! chanan, 192, which occupy a whole octavo page. The Hebrew is com necrology, as Orcus with his torrent waters, Stygian chains, Torches of the Furies, Recess of lofty Olympus, and such like ethnical allusions; yet even this is not sufficient for him; he unsanctifies his subject still more by purloining whole lines from the Latin poets, forming thereby a combination as incongruous and monstrous as would have been the pasting of pagan scraps and heathenish phylacteries on the unspotted robe of King David, as the consecrating the unhallowed vessels of the Capitolian Jupiter to the pure service of the Temple. He begins, for example, the 82d Psalm with two lines from an ode of Horace, of which only two letters are changed, making the substitution of Jove for Jovis. His work is, in this regard, much more a quilted-work of centos than Johnston's. This redundancy exhibits itself, not only in a multiplication of different words, but also in the tame, forceless repetition of the same word, apparently in the design of playing upon the term, a puerile figure of speech, and, from the kingly majesty of the Jewish lyrist, as distant as earth is from heaven. For example, we have "Justosque justus justitiæ parens Inclusus spatiis, æternis legibus orbem Cumulo."-Ps. xciv. 17. "Impio in scelere pios."-Ps. xcvii. 7. "Deficit mens spe salutis; spes nec illam deficit.”— Ps. cxix. 81. And numerous other examples, frequently line after line continuously. He introduces also, like Tate and Brady, similitudes and illustrations, not only not to be found in the original, but such as neither King David nor the Jews had probably any conception of. He uses the word anchor repeatedly, a nautical instrument, the name of which is not to be found in the Hebrew language; he has Aethiopic vultures, African crops, drunken taverns, cubs of the Libyan lioness, ferocious Scythians, &c. His translations confound all geographical, historical, and chronological proprieties; he mentions the "Sonante Perses arva findens ungula”—Ps. vii. as familiar to the Psalmist, 400 or 500 years ere the name of Persian or Persia was known; he denominates Pharaoh, from merely an accidental resemblance of names, "Phari rector superbæ"-Ps. cv. 25; whereby it is presupposed that King David knew Pharos about 800 years ere that famous light-house was constructed. Even his metaphors are sometimes confounded, as "Linguæ obseravi claustra fræno.”—Ps. xxxix. 2. Where bolts and bridles are jumbled together. He describes the heavens as sweating showers, like a man overwrought with labour ;→→ "Cœlum Maduit sudoris anheli Imbribus."-Ps. lxviii. 9. For so many striking infidelities and inaccuracies, not even all the eloquence and metrical talent of Buchanan can form any compensation; his inexhaustible stock of phraseology, his unrivalled dexterity in moulding it into verses of every dimension that were in use among the Romans, much as they deserve our admiration, and much and justly as they are admired by us, are but the very seducers that misled him into his faults as a versifier of the Psalms. His mind was florid rather than sublime; elegant and eloquent rather than fervid or animated; luxuriating rather in the flowers and foliage of beautiful language, than producing rich and sunny fruit of exqui site and highly-ripened flavour. His Psalms are rather a poetical exposition and flowery commentary, than a faithful or vivid representation of the peculiar beauties of these Songs of Zion. The version of Arthur Johnston, which has, I believe, received more commendation than Buchanan's in every country except our own, where his rival's preponderating reputation has too much overshadowed him, is liable, though in a far less degree, to the same charge of unfaithfulness. He has too much of brazen walls, and hot dog-stars, and anchors, and shipwrecks, and harbours, and cynosures, and such unbiblical tropes and trumpery. He is sometimes irreverent in applying improper expressions to the Deity, as, "Crimina dum plectis, formam, ceu tinea, rodis." -Ps. xxxix. 11; where, from the construction, the Almighty, not man's beauty, is likened to a moth :—also, "Eripe te stratis.”—Ps. xliv. 26. Te sequar."-Ps. cxix. 117. "Dum reputo quam sint tibi lyncea lumina, “Ibit in amplexus protinus ille tuos.—Ps. cxlv. 18. Dum stertunt alii, lumina semper habet." Ps. cxxi. 4. Yet, notwithstanding these and several hallucinations of similar sort, his work, by those who desiderate in the copy the simple energies of the original, deserves, beyond doubt, to be preferred. He is not tempted, like Buchanan, by his luxuriance of phraseology, and by the necessity of filling up, by some means or other, metrical stanzas of prescribed and inexorable length, to expatiate from the Psalmist's simplicity, and weaken, by circumlocution, what he must needs beat out and expand. His diction is therefore more firm and nervous, and, though not absolutely Hebræan, makes a nearer approach to the unadorned energy of Jewry. Accordingly, all the sublime passages are read with more touching effect in his than in Buchanan's translation; he has many beautiful and even powerful lines, such as can scarce be matched by his more popular competitor, the style of Johnston possessing somewhat of Ovidian ease, accompanied with strength and simplicity, while the tragic pomp and worldly parade of Seneca and Prudentius are more affected by Buchanan. In all his Psalms, saving one, Johnston has adopted the Elegiac couplet of Hexameter and Pentameter, which, by forcing him to restrict the expression of his thoughts within two lines, has prevented him from flying off into any reprehensible exuberance. In order to show, however, that he could have written, had it so pleased him, in Buchanan's multitude of metres, he has, with strange obliquity of taste, selected the 119th whereon to exhibit his metrical capabilities, turning all the parts of that didactic and preceptial poem, into every possible lyrical diversity. Than this choice nothing could have been more unfortunate, as that Psalm is written in one tenor of unvarying equality, and approaches nearer to prose than any other of the Psalms. Buchanan has, with much more taste and propriety, thrown it all into Trochaic Tetrameters. As class-books, these two Latin paraphrases have been long read, Buchanan in our Scottish, Johnston most, I believe, in the schools of Holland. Yet it may be very fair matter of doubt whether lessons from such books of modern compilation are proper Sunday exercises. If it is intended that boys should, at an early age, imbibe a taste for, and catch the true spirit of, Hebrew poetry, the prose version, which is obvious to any puerile capacity, is infinitely to be preferred; whereas, in the poetical versions, the pure gold of Judea is so confounded with the orichalc and spurious metal of Latium, that youthful intellect, incapable of separating them, is apt to confound through life the associations of Jupiter Capitolinus with him that "sits between the Cherubim." If it is only intended, on the other hand, that boys, by such lessons, should be familiarized with Latin metres and the difficulties of scanning, then, I say, that it is a dishonourable and unhallowed use to which to debase the Lyrist of Judea, whose songs and sentiments are too noble and too divine to be connected with the cold, repulsive, pedagogical impediments of Spondees and Dactyls. Devongrove, Clackmannanshire, 13th April, 1830. ORIGINAL POETRY. THE MEETING OF ANGLERS; OR, THE ST RONAN'S MUSTER-ROLL. [THE silver medal, given annually by the St Ronan's Border Club to the best angler, was competed for on Thursday, the 5th inst., and won by W. M'Donald, Esq. of Powderhall. On the night before the competition, two of the principal office-bearers of the Club sat enjoying themselves in Riddell's Inn till a late hour, and the debate growing very keen about the prowess of the various candidates for the prize, the one director, to put an end to it, proposed to the other to sing a song. The proposal was willingly acceded to, and the following composition was the result. If any part of it has subsequently turned out true, it can only be attributed to the spirit or prophecy, or the second sight.*] LITTLE wat ye wha's comin'- An' doctor's drugs, an' a' 's comin'. Meat is comin', drink is comin', Cricks are comin', tricks are comin', But wha to trust nae man can tell, My ain's the warst o' a' strummin', But there are tricks a man may smell, An' find his mou' a-thraw comin'. Come, dinna glower, an' dinna grin, Cheating an' leeing are nae sin; There's ay some hope o' truth in ane, Sin' Will o' Powderha' 's comin'. A borrow'd trout, there's little doubt, If our friend the Ettrick Shepherd be the author of this song, he has, with great modesty, made no allusion to himself; but we are willing to back him, at the next competition, against any man who ever switched the Tweed with horse-hair.-ED. The thing's enough to pit ane out, May wae light on his silly snout! But let us drink our glasses out, For little wat we wha 's comin'. LAST NIGHT. By Miss Jewsbury.* I SAT with one I love last night, Last night I saw the stars arise, But clouds soon dimm'd the ether blue, And when we sought each other's eyes, Tears dimm'd them too. We paced along our favourite walk, But paced in silence broken-hearted, Oh! grief can give the blight of years, A GRAND NEW BLACKING SANG. By the Ettrick Shepherd. BLACK-MAKERS now their shops may seal, But gude preserve my glancin' cloots- Sae a' the blousterin' Blacking-makers For business here they can have none- While Kyle, the sprightly Kyle, shall stand A blacking-maker, all uncommon, N. B. Pray call, before 'tis over late, At hunder an' twall the Canongate. We have much pleasure in adding the name of Miss Jewsbay to those which have already graced the pages of the Literary Jo nal. The above simple and touching stanzas might be set with exe lent effect to music, and we recommend them with this view to the attention of our musical readers. LITERARY CRITICISM. Paul Chifford. By the author of " Pelham," "Devereux," &c. 3 vols. London. Colburn and Bentley. 1830. We have already, in the course of our critical labours, had occasion to review two of Mr Edward Lytton Bulwer's productions, and we are now called upon to pass judgment on a third, which, however, is the fifth novel he has written. The predecessors of "Paul Clifford" were "Falkland," ," "Pelham," "Devereux," and "The Disowned." The two first of these appeared before the Literary Journal existed ;—to the two last we awarded a mixed commendation, acknowledging that they were clever, yet showing that they were over ambitiously so, and that the author frequently got beyond his depth. We know not whether our criticisms have had any share in producing that determined and illiberal hatred which Mr Bulwer now thinks fit to avow towards all Scotsmen, thus proving himself, in this instance at least, incapable of soaring above the paltry prejudices of a little and a vulgar mind. Mr Bulwer has thought proper to devote a considerable portion of the "Dedicatory Epistle" to an abuse of Scotland, and has lost no opportunity of introducing into the body of the work sneers of the most bitter and calumnious sort against our native land. His motive for so doing, according to his own confession, seems to be, that he has been rather severely handled by one or two Scotch critics; as if a writer of novels were entitled to libel a whole people, because his surpassing abilities had been disputed by a few shrewd individuals! A noble revenge, and a most philosophical process of ratiocination! Fie, Mr Lytton Bulwer; this is poor spite, and, upon the whole, it shows a smaller and a meaner spirit than any thing you have yet done. Make the amende honorable at your earliest convenience; for Scotland is just as fine a country as England; and accuse us not of too much nationality when we declare unto thee, that there beat as warın hearts, and that there exist souls of as lofty and generous a nature, on the northern as on the southern side of the Tweed. The reader will be better able to go along with us in our estimate of the merits of "Paul Clifford" after we have presented him with a short analysis of the story. The novel commences with an account of the death of the hero's mother, who expires miserably in one of the obscurest quarters of London, in a public-house of a very indifferent kind, called the Mug, tenanted by a certain Mrs Margery Lobkins. Upon its mother's decease, the child, then about three years old, is adopted by the said Mrs Lobkins; and, as the society which frequents her house is not of the most reputable description, he is, of course, brought up to any thing but a steady and virtuous course of life. With the exception of some instructions which he received from a poor wretch of the name of Mr Peter MacGrawler, whom our author delights in holding up to contempt as a Scotsman, and as the editor of a periodical he calls the Asinæum, (a name very like the Athenæum,) young Paul Clifford is left entirely to the PRICE 6d. chapter of accidents. His principal associates are thieves pickpockets, and highwaymen ; and in process of time, as was naturally to be expected, he himself becomes one of the number, preferring, however, as a proof of his ambitious and gentlemanly spirit, the latter class to the two former. We are then introduced to a regular gang of robbers, such as they existed some eighty years ago, when they rode the best horses in the kingdom, and were undisputed masters of Hounslow Heath, and other districts of a similar sort. Mr Bulwer thinks he has hit upon a new and happy idea in describing each of the gang in such a manner as to make him a kind of caricature or parody of some of the most celebrated and illustrious personages in the country, not even excepting royalty itself. Thus we have "Gentleman George," "Fighting Attie," "Old Bags," and others, in whom it is meant that we should recognise some shadowy and far-off representation of the very highest characters in the state. In the greater part of the first volume, we are limited to this sort of society; and Mr Bulwer, having studied attentively the flash dictionary and a few such elegant works, treats us to a quantity of dialogue of a very edifying kind, though of a peculiarly black-leg and back-slum sort of appearance. The progress of the story takes us fifty miles out of London to Warlock House, and introduces us to its inmates,— old Squire Brandon and his daughter Lucy. It so happens that Paul Clifford, who possesses a handsome person and rather an elegant address-though it is difficult to say how he picked up the latter requisite contrives to get introduced to Lucy Brandon; nay, more, upon her removal to Bath, he also visits that city, gets into all the best society, and finally succeeds in winning Lucy's affections. At the same time, he does not lose sight of his profession; and having, for his various merits, been elected captain of the gang to which he belongs, he amuses himself, when tired of the monotony of fashionable life, with a highway robbery, upon the good old plan pursued by Turpin and other heroes of antiquity. Among the rest, he attacks and robs Lord Mauleverer, a nobleman rather past the prime of life, who is a candidate for the hand of Lucy Brandon. Be it remembered, likewise, that Paul Clifford, though a highwayman, is of a very sentimental turn of mind, is deeply and truly attached to Lucy, and is, on the whole, an extremely romantic and delightful person, whom all young ladies are expected to admire prodigiously. So far does he carry his romance, that, after he has made himself sure of Lucy's hand, heart, and purse, he heroically refuses the whole, on the ground that he is not good enough to possess such an angel, and determines, after committing just one robbery more, in order to reinstate his finances, to leave England for ever, and enter into foreign service. The plot, however, now begins to thicken. Lucy has an uncle of the name of William Brandon, a lawyer of great eminence and of vast ambition, of an austere, reserved, and haughty character, and with an early history a good deal involved in mystery. It turns out at length that he had married in his youth a woman whom he passionately loved, but considerably below him in rank, with whom he lived only for a short time and not happily, he being of a hot and jealous disposition, and she having at length yielded to the criminal solicitations of vents the attention from flagging, and though he is unequal, and always inspiring us with the belief that we shall, ere long, admire him more than we as yet do, and then again disappointing us, still one cannot help feeling that there is something about him above the common run. We are continually disgusted with his faults, yet we confess we like him. To use a low and ridiculous phrase, there is pluck in him. He is not a stupid fellow, who mouths pompous nothings; nor is he a driveller of emasculated trash concerning fashionable life. He has, on the contrary, a good deal of originality,-not of the very highest kind, but still enough to induce even sensible critics like ourselves to hope that we may gain something by reading him. He now and then, also, hits upon a character which he sketches in strong colours, and to which, in certain scenes, he contrives to give even an intense interest. This is the case in his present work, with his delineation of William Brandon, the ambitious lawyer, the stern judge, the disappointed lover, and the bereaved father. The scene where he is under the necessity of condemning his own son to death, is of a striking and thrilling kind. In short, we can only say of "Paul Clifford" as we have said of Mr Bulwer's other productions, that it rather indicates genius than exhibits talent, and excites hopes which it does not fulfil, but which we believe may yet be fulfilled. We proceed to present our readers, as favourable specimens of our author's style, with two extracts, which may be perused with interest, though detached from the main body of the work. The first gives an account of A HIGHWAY ROBBERY IN THE GOOD OLD TIMES. "The three men now were drawn up quite still and motionless by the side of the hedge. The broad road lay before them, curving out of sight on either side; the ground was Our readers will at once perceive the many gross im- hardening under an early tendency to frost, and the clear probabilities which disfigure this plot. The truth is, Mrring of approaching hoofs sounded on the ear of the robbers, ominous, haply, of the chinks of more attractive metal,' about, if Hope told no flattering tale, to be their own. "Presently the long-expected vehicle made its appearance at the turn of the road, and it rolled rapidly on behind four fleet post-horses. Augustus, bully the post-boys; leave me to do the rest, "You, Ned, with your large steed, stop the horses; you. said the captain. "As agreed,' returned Ned, laconically. Now, look at me!' and the horse of the vain highwayman sprang from its shelter. So instantaneous were the operations of these experienced tacticians, that Lovett's orders were almost executed in a briefer time than it had cost him to give them. "The carriage being stopped, and the post-boys, white and trembling, with two pistols (levelled by Augustus and Pepper) cocked at their heads, Lovett, dismounting, threw open the door of the carriage, and in a very civil tone, and with a very bland address, accosted the inmate. "Do not be alarmed, my lord, you are perfectly safe; we only require your watch and purse.' Bulwer has not yet shown in any of his works that he is in the slightest degree capable of "holding the mirror up to nature." He is a clever, and even sometimes a powerful writer; but a restless and feverish improbability continually hovers over his style, and renders all his descriptions much more remarkable for their grotesque ingenuity than for their fidelity. It is utterly impossible that any man, educated as Paul Clifford was, could have acquired the manners and appearance of a gentleman, and not only impose upon the best society of Bath, but win the affections of such a woman as Lucy Brandon. Besides, the reader is expected to take an interest in Clifford's fate, very inconsistent with what is due both to sound morality and common sense. What makes this worse is, that Mr Bulwer, throughout the whole of his book, affects the satirist, and in what appears to us the most indiscriminate, reckless, and absurd manner, attacks the English laws and constitution, customs and usages. He rails at them like a second Cobbett in one of his sourest moods, and with fully as little judgment or correct knowledge of what he attacks. This is not satire; it is extravagance and folly, which excites a smile at the expense of him by whom it is uttered. If Mr Bulwer thinks it is a proof of a strong and superior mind, he was never more mistaken in his life. It is a proof of nothing but a capability of becoming a contributor to the Black Dwarf, if that vulgar, pestilent, and seditious periodical still exists. But though we are thus disposed to give but little Your curiosity is extremely gratifying,' returned th praise to the novel of "Paul Clifford" as a complete nobleman, as with great reluctance he drew forth a gold r whole, though we think it the worst book Mr Bul-peater, set, as was sometimes the fashion of that day, in pr wer has yet written, we should not have taken the cious stones. The highwayman looked slightly at th trouble of speaking of it at this length, had we not seen bauble. in it many marks of ability. Mr Bulwer appears to have pretty strong passions, and a temperament easily capable of carrying away impressions; the consequence is, that when the mood is on him, he can dash off forty or fifty pages of bold, vigorous writing, abundantly spiced with fancy and feeling, if not with judgment. He thus pre "Really,' answered a voice still softer than that of the robber, while a marked and somewhat French countenance crowned with a fur cap, peered forth at the arrester,than cruel to refuse you. My purse is not very full, and Really, sir, your request is so modest, that I were wors you may as well have it as one of my rascally duns,—bu my watch, I have a love for-and "I understand you, my lord,' interrupted the high wayman. What do you value your watch at?' "Humph-to you it may be worth some twenty gui "Allow me to see it.' neas. 66 6 "Your lordship,' said he, with great gravity, w too modest in your calculation-your taste reflects great worth fifty guineas to us at the least. To show you that credit on you: allow me to assure you that your watch think so most sincerely, I will either keep it, and we w say no more on the matter; or I will return it to you, up your word of honour that you will give me a cheque i |