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"Paulina! just Heaven! what can have brought you so far from home?-at night, too, and weak as you are? it will be your destruction."

She took no notice of the question, but fixing her quiet look upon the grave, she said—" Father, I shall soon lie there."

It was the thirteenth anniversary of Paulina's death, and the swollen brook was brawling hoarsely down the mountains, for a tempestuous autumn had already anticipated winter. The shutters of the upper chamber were closed, and Philippa sat by the sick-bed of her last child. The sufferer raised her pale and languid head, and whilst her dark eye appeared to wander in the delirium of fever, she said, with a struggle,-" Mother, is it not a mysterious imagination,-but I feel as if I had lived before, and that my thoughts were happier and better than they are now?" Philippa shuddered, and gazed almost with terror upon her child. "It is a dream, Paulina; one of the waking dreams of over-watchfulness. Be still, sweet girl; an hour's sleep will refresh you." As she spoke, Paulina did sleep, but there was little to refresh in such slumber. Her whole frame was agitated convulsively; her bosom heaved with unnatural beating;— her hands alternately grasped the coverlid, as if to tear it into shreds, and were ever and anon lifted up to her head, where her fingers twined themselves among the tresses of her ebon hair; her lips moved incessantly; her teeth chattered; her breath came short and thick, as if it would have made itself palpable to the senses. Terrible gibberings succeeded, and her poor mother knew that the moment of dissolution was at hand. In an instant all was still, the grasp of the hand was relaxed, the heaving and the beating ceased,-the lips were open, but the breath of life that had ebbed and flowed between them had finished its task, and was gone: a damp distillation stood upon the brow,-it was the last sign of agony which expiring nature gave.

That night Walstein dreamed a dream. Paulina, wrapt in her winding-sheet, stood opposite his couch. Her face was pale and beautiful as in life, but under the folds of her shroud he discovered the hideous form of a skeleton. The vision became double a grave opened as if spontaneously, and another Paulina burst the cerements asunder, and looked with her dead eye full upon her father. Walstein trembled, and awoke. A strange light glanced under his chamber door. Who was there stirring at the dead hour of night? He threw the curtains aside. The moon was still up; an indescribable impulse urged him to rush towards the room in which the body of his daughter lay. He passed along the lobby ;;-the door of the chamber was open; the Hungarian dog lay dead at the threshold; the corpse was gone.

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And in its raving wild career,

Now here, now there, in flank and rear, Dang wide the door.

"Oh, grously Winter, auld, dour chiel, At your dread coming, nought I feel But dool and fear;

Fell mower o' the human race,
I wish I mightna see your face
This hunder year.

"What brings ye here, auld gousty carle, Making our banes wi' aches to dirl, Drawing our tears?

In sooth, your reign we canna thole;
Sae, flee awa' to your North Pole,
Amang your bears.

"I hear there is an unco clatter Ye've frozen every pipe o' water— A bonny pliskie !

And if we havena soon a thaw,
I wouldna wonder, ane and a'
Would take to whisky."

I dauner'd up to shut the door,
For louder still the wind did roar,
But back I stagger'd,

As, help'd in by a rushing blast,
The open doorway quickly past,
In Winter swagger'd.

Frae his auld shouthers down did fa'
A mantle o' the driven snaw,
Like swandown tippet;
For periwig, he had a fog,
Set jauntily upon his nob,
And nicely clippet.

Lang icicles hung frae his chin,
His een were blear'd, his mouth fa'en in,
He look'd fu' wae;

His nose was red, his cheeks were blue,
His mottled legs, o' every hue,

Were bare and blae.

"Gudeman," said he, "as I gaed past,
Your door was open'd by a blast
Aye gangs beside me;
And, oh, it gies me muckle pain
To find my subjects flout my reign,
And canna bide me.

"Ye're just ane o' the thankless pack,
Misca's me sair behint my back,
Black be their fa'!

Sae I've, to vindicate my fame,
And clear frae spot my blemish'd name,
Gien ye a ca'."

Thinks I, I mann the carle fleech, For weel, gude certie, can he preach, The cunning body!

Says I," Auld sir, just take a waff O' that gude fire, we'll hae a laugh Ower a drap toddy.”

"Gudeman," said he, in tone sae snell,
"Think not wi' sic as you I'll mell,
Or drain a tumbler,

Until I've shown baith far and wide,
That ye deserve a weel-pay'd hide,
Ye senseless grumbler !

"Wi' friendly hand and tender care, I send my storms to clear the air; And raging flood,

To wisest purposes I tend;
And may you see that in the end
They're for your good!

"I mind, alas, the days of old,
When men were hardy, brave, and bold,
Nor fear'd my rigour;

Who would of snaw their pillow make,
Nor ever think to grane and quake,
So strong their vigour.

"Ye now have grown a feckless race,
There's hardly ane can bear my face,
Though happ'd wi' claes;

Ye are unlike these men of might,
Whose arms were powerful in the fight,—
Ay, these were days!

"I mind me well, how blythe and sweet, The leddies fear'dna me to meet

On causeway's crown;

Wi' wee mode cloaks, and elbows bare,
Silk mittens on their arms sae fair,
And scrimpit gown.

"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
About the summer's golden days,
And sunny bowers;

And haver about buzzing bees,
And meadows green, and waving trees,
And blushing flowers:

"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 Encircled by a band o' freens, Losers and winners.

"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,
For wife and weans, a merry crew,
Came thranging in.

Cauld Winter would nae langer sit; "Certie," said he, "it's time to flit ;My loudest blast

Is naething to a woman's tongue!" And saying this, awa he flung, And out he past.


By the Author of " Dialogues on Natural and Revealed Religion," &c.

ETHICS-The science of conduct and manners, considered more with a view to practice than theory. The 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. To 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.
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 contri-
buted 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 imagina-
tion 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.
their hours of happiness may have been broken in upon
by many little wayward caprices and touches of ill-hu-
mour 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
of happiness which the human mind is capable of form-
ing, and which we may therefore hope can be ultimately
realized. The effect of time in removing grief, is by its
gradual operation in disjoining the groupes which ima-
gination thus has formed, in softening its colours, and
bringing back again the mingled and imperfect lineaments
of human happiness as it really exists in this world.
R. M.






friends were met, with looks of joy, so fair a sight

to see,

And thousand prayers and blessings pour'd for Adeline and me!

GRIEF. It is singular to contemplate the human mind under the various impressions to which it is subject. is so sensitive, and so easily made to run from one train of feeling into another! Men, in their general aspect, are happy, or, at least, at ease. They talk, they laugh, they meet in convivial intercourse; you would think they were created only for mutual sympathy and enjoyment. All of a sudden, the brow of the gayest and 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 Ir was my bridal morning, and my bride was fair and under which he labours; he exists solely amidst images of sorrow; all the amusements and intercourse in which And her goodness and her graces were the praise of every 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

They knew not, 'mid that festal scene, my heart alone was sad,


The very heart they idly deem'd the proudest, the most
They knew not that a shadow slept beneath the smiles I
A thought of one then far away, whom I had loved before!
I gazed upon the form and face of her I call'd my bride,
I knew her virtues and her charms-and yet I felt no

I could not bear her bridal robes, her diamond-circled

Another should have held her place-where was that lost one now?

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,

and true,

that happiness seldom rises to rapture; but pain-how And my affection was the first that e'er her bosom often does it amount to agony! This seems to tell us, knew ;

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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. Transporting, 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 thither ward! 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.

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"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!


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!"

"And pray, why so, impertinent vagrant?" said his lordship.

"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

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 beforehand, that you will never wed the Lady Margaret Ogilvie. 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

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