"Wi' friendly hand and tender care, I send my storms to clear the air; And raging flood, To wisest purposes I tend; "I mind, alas, the days of old, Who would of snaw their pillow make, "Ye now have grown a feckless race, Ye are unlike these men of might, "I mind me well, how blythe and sweet, The leddies fear'dna me to meet On causeway's crown ; "But now the misses look sae gaucy, As they sail by wi' air sae saucy, Smoor'd to the nose Wi' boas, tippets, cloaks, and muffs, Lang veils, and nicely crimpet ruffs, And Shetland hose. "Poets and lovers make a fraise And haver about buzzing bees, "But, certie, they would look gey queer, Were Sol to rule through a' the year, Their skins to roast; They'd glad exchange their trees and bowers, Their shrubs and plants, and fragrant flowers, For clinking frost. "Suppose, gudeman, I took the gee, And no set foot across the sea, Whare's a' your joys? Ay, whare would be your skating, curling, Your sliding, snawba's, and your hurling, And heartsome ploys? "From Arthur Seat I oft did watch, To see the merry curling match; Nay, at their dinners, I've seen the round of beef and greens "I mind that on the Calton Hill, I lang hae stood and laugh'd my fill, Till shook my shanks, To see the schoolboys at their play, And far too short my winter day For a' their pranks." Auld Winter, brimming wi' vexation, Was now cut short in his narration, For sic a din Got up, a perfect hobbleshew, Cauld Winter would nae langer sit; Is naething to a woman's tongue !" NUGE LITERARIE. By the Author of "Dialogues on Natural and Revealed Religion," &c. The Το ETHICS The science of conduct and manners, considered more with a view to practice than theory. term, Moral Philosophy, comprehends, farther, the metaphysical discussions concerning the principles of moral approbation, whether they belong to a particular faculty, or may be resolved into some more general fact in the human constitution. The ethical, or practical branch, was more exclusively the moral philosophy of ancient times. It is treated with much fulness, ability, and In eloquence, in the writings of Aristotle and Cicero. modern times, ethics, properly so called, has necessarily been connected with religion; and the strongest motives to a virtuous life, and the laws by which it is regulated, have been derived from the sources of Divine revelation. Hence, except in the pulpit, or in treatises professedly religious, we seldom meet with ethical discussions. separate morality from religion, is commonly looked upon with a suspicious eye. The one seems imperfect without the other; and accordingly, there are few modern books of mere morality, which are written with much glow and animation, or which find a ready sympathy in the reader. It is in the writings of the illustrious ancients that ethics appear in all their dignity; because, so far from being any thing inferior to the system of religion in those ages, they were evidently a great improvement upon it. The more professed ethical writers of modern times have generally exhibited the system of human duties under a more worldly and less elevated aspect than those of antiquity. Wishing to avoid as much as possible the topics and the tone of the pulpit, they have restricted their views to mere prudential considerations, or have even polluted the springs of morality by the corrupt maxims and fashions of the day. In the hands of Aristotle or Cicero, and perhaps still more in those of Xenophon and Plato, morality seems always to be rising above the present sphere of existence, and to be struggling to break into some higher field. In the moralists of the French school, lead is rather tied to its wings; or while they are painted with artificial colours, they beat and flutter amidst impurity and defilement. There are many important and lively observations on life and manners in Montagne, Rochefoucauld, and our own Chesterfield; but they do not produce that elevation of thought and feeling, which is so inspiring in the great writers of antiquity; and they often, on the contrary, mislead and debase. The finest moral writers of modern times are Fénélon and Addison, because they are at all times drawing their inspiration from the sources of Christianity, even while they profess to do little more than to moralize after the manner of Socrates. FILIAL PIETY. It is a pleasing circumstance to observe in heathen times certain compensations for the gross corruption and follies of their religious system. If they could have no moral satisfaction in the worship of their deities, they enjoyed somewhat of the sublimity of the religious sentiment in their devotion to their country, and Filial Piety came in the room of the tenderness and submissiveness of that sentiment to which now the term of Piety is more exclusively attached. Under the influence of Christianity, these affections, no doubt, are substantially improved; but they stand out more conspicuously in the history of ancient times. And while the splendid exhibitions of patriotism there held out to us have made all our youthful hearts to beat and to glow, the beautiful stories which have come down to us of the duty shown to parents by their children, are among the most deeply moral impressions which these ages have conveyed to us. They are well deserving of the emulation of more enlightened times, which are apt sometimes to quench some of our best affections, by subjecting them too coldly to the calculations of reason, without taking into the account the feelings from which they naturally arise. Filial piety appears most lovely when it is exercised amidst the weaknesses and failings of parents, and when, overlooking much that must be blamed, the child regards his parent solely in the sacred character of the author of his existence, and as the guardian and protector of his infant and early years. These are strong claims to affection and reverence, and, in good minds, they are never without their weight; but it ought to be impressed upon the minds of parents, that the filial love of their children depends mainly upon their conduct to them, and that, in the common defective state of human character, little more than outward or prudential demonstrations of duty can be expected from a child to a harsh, an unprincipled, or a neglectful parent. It scarcely ever happens that a child does not retain the utmost reverence and regard for a parent who has shown himself really such in the interest and concern which he takes in the welfare of his child; and whatever may be the errors of wilfulness and disobedience into which the child may run, the affectionate character of the parent will very seldom indeed fail of being met by duty or by penitence in return. that we are not here in our true position. That we are capable of the highest relish of happiness, many occasional enjoyments of our present being sufficiently prove; but tranquillity and a calm contentment are the most usual forms of happiness in this life. Turbulent pleasures have but a short duration; and many men have so great a distaste to a low and tranquil state of happiness, that they will rather plunge into the midst of cares and hazards than flow down quietly with the stream. The intensity with which we are capable of suffering is, in truth, a proof of our capacity of enjoyment, When we are deprived of any thing on which we had set our hearts, though, while we possessed it, it may never have contributed so invariably to our happiness as we seem to feel upon its deprivation, yet all the sources of happiness which belonged to it then open upon our thoughts and feelings, unmingled with any other recollections. A man who has lost an affectionate wife, feels only the wretchedness and solitude of his condition, and paints to his imagination the delights which his union with her was capable of giving him, rather, perhaps, than those which he really derived from it. Her image now seems to unite at once in his fancy all the happy illusions of youthful love, and all the long-tried experiences of steady affection. Yet their hours of happiness may have been broken in upon by many little wayward caprices and touches of ill-humour now forgotten, often, certainly, by other avocations and enjoyments. In the same way, a man who has lost a fortune, rather laments over what this fortune was cpaable of making him enjoy, than what he really enjoyed from it: he crowds into one picture all the pleasures, in all their imaginary intensity, which lay scattered and imperfect over many years; and he laments more for what he fancies he has lost than for the real deprivation. The intensity of grief then arises from the perfect pictures GRIEF. It is singular to contemplate the human mind of happiness which the human mind is capable of formunder the various impressions to which it is subject. It ing, and which we may therefore hope can be ultimately is so sensitive, and so easily made to run from one train realized. The effect of time in removing grief, is by its of feeling into another! Men, in their general aspect, gradual operation in disjoining the groupes which imaare happy, or, at least, at ease They talk, they laugh, gination thus has formed, in softening its colours, and they meet in convivial intercourse; you would think bringing back again the mingled and imperfect lineaments they were created only for mutual sympathy and enjoy- of human happiness as it really exists in this world. ment. All of a sudden, the brow of the gayest and R. M. lightest-hearted is overcast,-tears roll from his eyes, and the voice which was the organ of mirth, is made to utter the sounds of wailing and complaint. For a time, the mourner is wholly absorbed in the affliction under which he labours; he exists solely amidst images of sorrow; all the amusements and intercourse in which he delighted are distasteful to him; he runs into solitude, or seeks only the society of some friend, of whose sympathy he is secure. Were not these the most common appearances of human nature, we should scarcely conceive that the same being could exhibit frames of mind so different. One would imagine that the insecurity of his state would damp all his enjoyments, or that the knowledge which he possesses of the probable return of his relish for the common pleasures of society, would at once dispel his sorrows. Why am I to laugh and rejoice to-day, when to-morrow I may be in the depths of despair? or why am I now to be a martyr to grief, when, in no long time, I shall again enter into the common stream of occupation or amusement? This representation certainly points to the present character of man as something very imperfect, and little under the dominion of any steady forethought. It shows us that we, in fact, continue children from the cradle to the grave. But the very vehemence of our emotions indicates, at the same time, a fund of character upon which something much more regular and stable may be built. And this is chiefly the case with our emotions of grief. If man is more commonly happy than miserable, he yet suffers much more intensely than he She had not broken her faith to me,-for she was pure enjoys. It is Mr Hume who has somewhere remarked, that happiness seldom rises to rapture; but pain-how And my affection was the first that c'er her bosom often does it amount to agony! This seems to tell us, knew ; THE FAITHLESS. Ir was my bridal morning, and my bride was fair and young, And her goodness and her graces were the praise of every friends were met, with looks of joy, so fair a sight to see, And thousand prayers and blessings pour'd for Adeline and me! They knew not, 'mid that festal scene, my heart alone was sad, wore The very heart they idly deem'd the proudest, the most I could not bear her bridal robes, her diamond-circled Another should have held her place-where was that lost one now? and true, They tell me that her noble heart is faithful still to me, That never blame falls from her lips for my inconstancy: They say her check has lost its hue!-that all her wishes crave, Is but for me a blessing,-for herself, an early grave! Oh! would that she had loved me less! or that we ne'er had met ! That grief was mine alone, and she the past could all forget! Oh! would that she could read my soul-my pale and feverish brow! Her deepest woe is ecstasy to what I suffer now! I dwell in halls of splendour-I have all the world can give, But solitude is round me and I start to think I live: One hope alone gives happiness to him, the false of faith Remorse will play the murderer's part, and bring me welcome death! GERTRUDE. TERRIBLE TIDINGS TO TERRESTRIAL TRANSGRESSORS. BEING AN AL-LITERARY CURIOSITY IN THE SHAPE OF THAT taste, those talents, that throw their triumphant tinge throughout this transitory terrestrial theatre,-terminate they totally there? Terrific, treasonable thought! That tender throb,-those trickling tears,-talk truly; they tacitly tell, that those treasures transmigrate to the tranquil territory that tabernacles this temporary tenement's translated tenant. Thus testifies, too, the translucid Tome that teacheth transcendent truth. Trausporting, thrilling tidings! There they take their true tone, their true tension. This thorny time terrestrial, 'tis true, tries them,-tests them; those, therefore, that tarry to tend them to true things, to temper them thoroughly, transgress terribly! They that truly travail through this their trial-time, touch the tree-top. Thou temporizing, time-thieving trifler, take thought! Tarriest thou to try this tempting toil? Tremble then; think, that though to-day thou talkest trippingly thy tasteless tattle, trollest titteringly thy tinkling tune, twirlest thy twisted toes, trumpetest thy turgid transactions, tracest thy tortuous tricks, tincturest tastefully thy tint, to-morrow thy transitory time terminates! Truce, then, to this trash-to this turpitude! Thousands, tampering, trespassing thus, totter to their turfy tomb,-then tumble topsy-turvy through Tartarus's trap, thus terminating their tragical tale. The thunder's touch transfixes their tall though transient towers, that topple then; their twinkling tiaras, their tumid thrones-thrive they thereafter? That terrible tribunal tells their thin tenure! Terrific transition to transgressors thus tost to torment! Twig their trepidation! Turn, therefore, timeously, trustingly, to thy tutelary teacher; take thyself timidly to the temple, that tells thee tenderly thy true, thy tangible treasure. Though terrors teem, though troubles thicken, though temptations tantalize, though tumults toss, though turbid tempests thwart, -thirsten thereafter-try to travel thitherward! Though toilsome the tour-though threatening to the timorous the track, the throes turn tolerable through time; thus tells the Testament through thousand texts. Traditions, too, transmitted through trackless time, tell this: thinkest thou that they traduce the truth? Transfuse their transparent tenor; transplant their teaching tendency! Thou traitor to thyself, transmute thy truant tactics; turn to the true tack; transform thyself; throw to the torrent thy tinkling toys, thy tawdry tinsel, thy trivial trinkets, thy too trim trappings! Their tainting, tyrannical thraldom tangles thee; therefore, trample their trammels to tatters! Turbulent tyro, too tenacious to thy treacherous tenets Thinkest thou thy tutor too talkative, too tedious? Termest thou this theme trite, tiresome, teasing, tautological? The topic twinges thee, then? Transcribe thankfully the totality thereof; try therewith to titillate thy tongue, to tax thy thoughts, to thaw thy torpor, to transpierce thy twilight trance, to touch thy tough temperament, to tame thy tremendous temerity! Tie this talisman tightly to thee; twine this treatise to thy tablets! The T treat terminates; the treated train tardily trail their toes to the tune "Turn-out!" Trusty typographer! this trieth thy types' transferability-thy title to tittle-tattle throughout tea-time! LORMA. "But who, dark One, art thou, At the world and life thus railing? Go, hide thy gloomy brow Where spray-mists shroud the bough, And cavern'd winds are wailing!" "Yes, I may hide my head Where life-scenes ne'er shall wake me; Loves, friends, are lost-are deadJoys, hopes, afar are fled Wishes-even fears forsake me!" "Yet, raise thy head on high, Thou timid, weak immortal! Thy home's beyond the sky, The woes that cloud thine eye, Mere shadows in life's portal! "Though thine alone should be Whole earth, with all its treasures, Heir of Eternity! Oh! what is Time to thee, Its fleeting pains and pleasures? "Take all, take every wish, Joy's sparkling nectar draining, Swift to thy longings rush,— Thy grasp the rose will crush, But leave the thorn remaining! "Then bless thine agonies, Life's pleasure-snares dispelling, Teaching thy soul to rise To its own native skies, Of Peace, Love, Joy, the dwelling! A STORY OF THE BLACK ART. PART II. By the Ettrick Shepherd. LADY ELIZABETH and Janet being now left free to their own exercises, to work they went, and their first effort was to attempt gaining for the young lady's husband, a near neighbour of theirs, the first Catholic nobleman in the kingdom, if not the most powerful subject in it; and this nobleman we shall denominate Earl George, as that was really his Christian name. But Lady Elizabeth had never seen him; and therefore, before she put any of her charms to the test, she resolved to go and see him in disguise; and her father, Lord Robert, having been sent for to court, she had full leisure for her design. Accordingly, either Jenny Elphingston, or that other being who appeared so often in her likeness, waylaid Lord George one morning as he was taking his accustomed early walk. She was dressed like a wandering gipsy, or fortune-teller; and as Lord George approached, she burst out a-laughing. This caused him to pause and eye her with a curious and goodhumoured look; for it is almost impossible to hear one laughing very heartily, without at least smiling in accompaniment. "I cry you pardon, noble earl," said she; may our Lady bless you, and mend your wit, for really I cannot help laughing at you!" 66 the air invisible, and hast seen what I have been doing? for, otherwise, neither thou nor any human being save one knowest that." "I know all that you have done, and all that lies before you to do," said she;" and among other things, where your head lay the night before last, and also how dearly you will repent it." "Hold your peace concerning that, infernal hag!" cried he, in utter consternation. "And now that I know you either deal with heaven or hell, pray tell me what is to be my fortune?" "Give me two French crowns, then," returned she, "of which you have plenty in your possession, and not very fairly come by either." The earl made the sign of the cross on his brow and his breast-looked up to heaven, and, with a deep sigh, blessed himself in the name of the holy Virgin, and all the saints of the holy Calendar; and taking out two French crowns, he gave them to her, and then said, "Now." "Ay, now," said she ;— -" and what does that import? Do not you know that there was never a well-done deed, nor a wise saying, with a Now at the end of it? But to show you that I know the past, the present, and the future, have not you, for the last three days, been parleying with a great man, the mortal enemy of your house and your religion? And you think you have outwitted him; but he has outwitted you. But what a fool were you to propose the strengthening of his party!" "You are right, beldam, you are right," said he, quickly and emphatically; "but I never purposed it in my heart." "No, you did not," said she. "But you have taken fire in your bosom, and you are burnt with it; for methought I saw a beautiful, plump, and amorous lady, with red hair and black eyes, not over young though, for whose love you betrayed the secrets of your party. What a fool you were, if I saw truly! But what do you think?-the earl knows all that passed between you." "May all the powers of heaven and hell forbid it, witch!" exclaimed he furiously. "I would not for the half of my earldom that these words were true." "He knows all; so look to yourself. And now you purpose to go forthwith and ask the Lady Margaret Ogilvie in marriage. You know you will not be refused, for your powerful interest is at present the prize of competition between all parties. But you know, or ought to know, that she is affianced to the Earl Marischal; and in even making the proposal, you make your best and most powerful friend your enemy." "Who the devil are you, wife? for I declare that you not only amaze, but terrify me. Surely it is impossible that a familiar spirit, that is, a demon, can know the purposes of the human heart. Therefore, declare to me who you are, and whence you have this knowledge, and I will reward you; for at present you are to me a being quite incomprehensible." "So I am to myself. Hold your peace on that point. But confess that I am right." "So far you are; but also so far wrong. For, when I wed the Lady Margaret Ogilvie, I have a sure bait for the Earl Marischal." "Ha-ha-ha! Ay! Go away with your baits, and your gossamer-woven purposes! But I tell you before"And pray, why so, impertinent vagrant?" said his hand, that you will never wed the Lady Margaret Ogillordship. "Because you have been on a fool's errand for these three days," said she, "and you are going on another today, and a third to-morrow. What a pity that so goodly a young chief should have no better wit!" Lord George was astounded when he thought of what he had been engaged in for the last three days, and also of the purposes of his heart. "What devil hath told thee this, old crone?" said he; or art thou one of the hellish fraternity thyself, or a witch that skimmest through vie. Nay, you will never ask her; for before you see her, you will lose your heart to another, and that other will fool you. Good by, my lord. I have told you enough to engage your thoughts at present ;-enough for my two French crowns. When you require my advice, I will come to you unsent for." And with that she glided away, leaving the noble earl riveted to the spot, and thus conversing with himself: "When you require my advice, I will come to you unsent for!' Confound me if ever I heard any thing like this in the course of my life! A man had need take good care what he says and what he does in this world; for there are seers and hearers that he little weens of in his philosophy. Why, here is a quean, a merry-conceited quean, who knows all the purposes of my heart, as well as if they were written on it, and a window in my breast through which to read the scroll. I am utterly confounded at what she has told me, and confess myself an egregious fool. But I'll give her the lie for once; for I'll go and ask the Lady Margaret Ogilvie, and wed her too, if it were for nothing more but rendering that inscrutable witch's forebodings of none avail. Yes, I will. I had resolved on it before, it is true, and am resolved on it still." The next day, as he was riding in light armour, and mounted in green and gold, through the wood of Craigy, and, it was believed, on his road to court and to wed the Lady Margaret Ogilvie, he met with a beautiful young lady riding on a black palfrey, and clothed also in green, with a veil of green gauze, that hung down to her knee. The earl doffed his velvet bonnet to her, that waved with splendid plumage, and accosted her in courtly phrase-for his heart was overcome by her great beauty, which excelled all that he had ever beheld in woman; and he felt earnestly disposed to do homage at its shrine. With badinage of wit and flattery, he detained her, eager to discover her name and lineage; but she concealed both with great good-humour, at one time calling herself Bess, at another Marjory, and finally told him, that she was the Queen of the Fairies. Lord George was as much delighted with her good-humour and pleasantry, as with her extraordinary beauty, and resolved, if possible, not to part with her; and when she asked to be directed to the chapel of Craigy, he instantly proffered to accompany her, and likewise find some business with the chaplain when they got there. But, in place of conducting her to the chapel of Craigy, which lay several miles to the westward, he rode straight with her into his own castle, which, owing to the venerable woods that then surrounded it, she never saw till she rode into the court, and that moment the portcullis fell behind them. "If this be the chapel of Craigy, sir," said she," it is on a very extensive scale, and its sacred portals rather of a singular construction. What may be the meaning of this?" 66 "The chaplain is here, my lady Queen of the Fairies," said he ;" and, explicitly, you are now my prisoner for the remainder of this day and the following night." “Well, I like this extremely, it is so romantic," said she. "And now that I know whose hands I am in, and his high honour and gallantry, instead of pretending to take offence, I assure you, my lord, I am very happy at being under your roof. You know I can fly off like a beetle, or sail away in a gossamer shroud, on any offence taken." The earl was never so much delighted. He lifted her from her palfrey in his arms, carried her into the entrance-hall, kissed her, and welcomed her to his castle. To describe all the endearments which he lavished on her that day, and that evening, is impossible; for he became every hour more and more enamoured of her as he discovered her rare endowments, and heard her converse and sing with such fluency, both in the French and Italian languages; and, at a late hour, they parted, highly delighted with each other. and we tink she pe a witch, a fery creat terrible witch, for she pe knowing all tings tat efer was done since te world was maide. And she pe knowing fwhat man's pe kissing te mhaids, and fwhat mhaids pe under lhoving to men; and she know some tings apoot you too, my lord,—He, he, he! Ay, she pe knowing some tings apoot you too." Lord George went down to the entrance-hall, and ordered her attendance; and behold, there was his unaccountable friend the gipsy-woman! He was greatly struck by her appearance there, especially as it at that moment occurred to him what she had so lately foretold, namely, "that he should never ask the Lady Margaret Ogilvie, for that before he beheld her, he should lose his heart to another;" and he already found these words verified. She addressed him jocularly, asking for the lady Margaret Ogilvie, and how his suit there had thriven; but he answered, that he was much more concerned about another, and if she would tell him who that other one was, where she was, and what was her lineage, he would give her other two French crowns. "I can only tell you, my noble lord," said she, "that she is not who you think she is, where you think she is, nor what you think she is. And haply, if you knew all these things truly, you would not like her so well, and mayhap you might like her better. But my errand here was to warn you not to pursue this amour farther, till you see the issue of your last one; for the deeds then done, and the words then uttered, must be answered for." "Out upon them all, and upon you, witch!" exclaimed he, as if with disgust. "I will have no farther connexion with any of that house." "My lord, I have but one thing to say. You have committed yourself the words have been said that cannot be unsaid; and, be assured, you must either take a wife out of that house, or lose your head. There is that power engaged in it that resistance is vain." "Out upon you, witch," cried he; you are some emissary of that malignant house, therefore hence with you. I am more concerned about one word you said, than about all that house and its too powerful faction;" and so saying, he left her, and hasted up the stair. "It is true," said he to himself, " that I do not know who she is; but sure I know well enough where she is." He then sent his aunt to call the lovely stranger, but the lady was gone-vanished once and for ever-and how she made her escape, no man could tell-but her palfrey still remained in the stall. The earl was now rendered quite stupid with astonishment, and caused his servants to run here and there, and search the most unfeasable places, but the lady was lost. In the course of a week, and while the earl was still ruminating on the angelic beauty of the young lady and her mysterious disappearance, and really reasoning with himself whether or not she could have been a human creature, he was seized by a warrant from the regent and carried to prison, to answer for the deforcement of a lady of high rank, and making away with her in his own castle! When examined, he withheld nothing, but his tale gained no credence; and there being a powerful faction then against him, and the lady's palfrey and part of her dress being found, he was declared guilty by a majority of his peers, and the advocate pleaded hard for his immediate execution and forfeiture to the lady's father; but he was adjudged to imprisonment for a year and a day in the first place, lest the lady should make her appearance. Although matters stood thus hard with him, he was overwhelmed only with love. He scarcely thought of his own perilous state, but ever and anon of the lovely creature who had brought him to it. He saw her night and day in his mind's eye, in all her beauty, sweetness, and condescension, and he would have given the whole world to have seen her again in reality. The next morning, the earl was early astir, impatient again to meet his lovely guest; and he waited and waited, but still she did not leave her apartment. At length his impatience was in part diverted by a servant telling him that there was a woman in the castle, who refused to go away till she had seen him in private; and, moreover, that no one knew how she came there, for that the portcullis had never been raised since the time that he himself had entered; and he added, "Inteed, my lord, she In the midst of these hardships, he was assailed by pe fery strainge kerling, and have creat teall of chatt; | another great personage, mentioned before, regarding his |