AMERICAN MODES OF THINKING. FROM A RAMBLE THROUGH THE UNITED STATES. HORSE SELLING. A SCENE AT TATTERSALL'S.-" Gentlemen, what can you hesitate about? Only look at her! She is one of the most beautiful creatures that I have ever had the honour of submit "Near Mountpleasant, I stopped to dine at the house of ting to your notice! So gentle in her paces-indeed so safe a a Dutchman by descent. After dinner, the party adjourned, goer that a child might ride her. Her pedigree is excellent as is customary, to the bar-room, where divers political and she is thorough-bred from her ear to her hoof; and the polemical topics were canvassed with the usual national Heralds College could not produce a more sound and satisfacwarmth. An account of his late Majesty's death was in- tory one. She comes from a good house, I pledge my word, serted in a Philadelphia paper, and happened to be noticed Gentlemen. My Lord Duke, will you allow me to say L.250 by one of the politicians present, when the landlord asked for your Grace? She will, notwithstanding the excellence of me how we elected our king in England. I replied that your Grace's stud, be an ornament to it. She is a picture— he was not elected, but that he became king by birthright, complete to a shade; in fact, I could gaze upon her for ever, &c. A Kentuckian observed, placing his leg on the back Thank you, my Lord Duke, I was certain your Grace would and always be struck with some new beauty she possesses. of the next chair, "That's a kind of unnatural." An Innot let such an opportunity pass. There is not a horse-dealer dianian said, "I don't believe in that system myself." A in the kingdom who can show such a fine creature! She is third" Do you mean to tell me, that because the last above competition-I may say she is matchless! The Regent's king was a smart man, and knew his duty, that his son or Park might be betted to a mole-hill with safety that she has no his brother should be a smart man, and fit for the situa- paragon. Sir Henry, let me call your attention to Cleopatra ! tion" I explained that we had a premier, minister, &c.; She is like her namesake in the olden times-but beautiful when the last gentlemen replied, "Then you pay half-a- without paint? She is pure Nature, and no vice! Her action, dozen men to do one man's business. Yes, yes, that may of an hour-but puffing is out of the question-you shall judge Sir Henry-yes, her action-I could dilate upon it for a quarter do for Englishmen very well! but I guess it would not go down here: no, no, Americans are a little more enlightened Sir Harry, were they to behold her movements, would be out for yourself Run her down, John-The Graces, I am sure, than to stand that kind of wiggery." During this conver- of temper with her captivating excellence! Taghoni, I must sation a person had stepped into the room, and had taken admit, can perform wonders with her pretty feet; but Cleopatra, his seat in silence. I was about to reply to the last ob- my Lord Duke, can distance the whole of them put together; servations of my antagonist, when this gentleman opened and positively leave the Opera House, with all its talent, in the out with "Yes! that may do for Englishmen very well." | back ground. In fact, I am deficient in words to display her He was an Englishman, I knew at once by his accent, and immense capabilities-L.300 Going!-Going! L.310. Thank I verily believe, the identical radical who set the village of you, my Lord Duke, she must be yours. For the last time, Bracebridge by the ears, and pitched the villagers to the going at L.310; but I will do the handsome thing, I will allow devil, on seeing them grin through a horse-collar, when you five minutes to compose your mind-I am well aware that such unparalleled beauty is very dazzling-therefore, before you they should have been calculating the interest of the nalose sight of this handsome creature, I do impress upon you to tional debt, or conning over the list of sinecure placemen. remember that the opportunity once lost-L320; Sir Harry, He held in his hand, instead of Cobbett's Register, the I am obliged to you-the world has always acknowledged you Greenville Republican: he had substituted for his shortas a man of great taste in matters of this kind; and, without sleeved coat a round-about :" he seemed to have put on flattery, you have never shown it more than in the present flesh, and looked somewhat more contented. "Yes, yes," instance-according to the poet-"Beauty unadorned is adornhe says that may do for Englishmen very well, but it ed the most!" Going!-Cleopatra, my Lord Duke, will be won't do here. Here we make our own laws, and we keep in other hands if your Grace does not make up your mind in them too. It may do for Englishmen very well, to have your usual princely style of doing things-a good bidding will the liberty of paying taxes for the support of the nobility make Cleopatra your own for ever; therefore, now's the time to have the liberty of being incarcerated in a jail for to put on the distancing power, and your Grace will win the race in a canter! L.340. My Lord Duke, I can only express shooting the wild animals of the country-to have the liberty my gratitude to say, that you have done me honour-Going! of being seized by a press-gang, torn away from their wives-going-in fact, gentlemen, I am like an artist in this case, and families, and flogged at the discretion of my Lord Tom, I do not like to leave such a delightful picture, and I could dwell Dick, or Harry's bastard." At this the Kentuckian upon the qualities of Cleopatra to the echo that applauds again guashed his teeth, and instinctively grasped his hunting--but most certainly I have given you all a fair chance-Cleoknife; an old Indian doctor, who was squatting in one corner of the room, said, slowly and emphatically, as his eyes glared, his nostris dilated, and his lip curled with contempt, "The Englishman is a dog;" while a Georgian slave, who stood behind his master's chair, grinned and chuckled with delight, as he said, "Poor Englishman, him meaner man den black nigger." "To have," continued the English-gentlemen-a slip will happen to the best of us-her feet, I man, "the liberty of being transported for seven years for being caught learning the use of the sword or the musket. To have the tenth lamb, and the tenth sheaf seized, or the blanket torn from off his bed, to pay a bloated, a plethoric bishop or parson; to be kicked and cuffed about by a parcel of Bourbon gendarmerie-Liberty!-why hell sweat." Here I slipped out at the side door into the water-melon patch. As I receded, I heard the whole party burst out into an obstreperous fit of laughter. A few broken seutencas from the Kentuckian and the radical reached my ear, such as "backed out"-" damned aristocratic." I returned in about half an hour to pay my bill, when I could observe one or two of those doughty politicians who remained, leering at me most significantly. However, I smiled and said nothing." There are two things eminently remarkable in America; the one is, that every American, from the highest to the lowest, thinks the Republican form of government the best; and the other, that the seditious and rebellious of all countries become there the most peaceable and contented citizens." patra is on the go--are you all silent?-going for L.340 after L.370 NATIONAL CHARACTER.-The Regent Duke of Orleans once asked a stranger, what were the different characters and distinctions of the various nations in Europe. "The only manner in which I can answer your Royal Highness is, to repeat to you the regard to a stranger who comes among them. In Spain, they first questions which are asked ainong the several nations in ask, is he a nobleman of the first rank? In Germany, can he be admitted into the Chapters? In France, is he in favour at courts? In Holland how much money has he? And in England, who is that man? ELEMENTS OF THOUGHT. POWER OF BEING USEFUL TO MANKIND. FOR this neither splendid talents, nor profound learning, nor great wealth, are required. A well-informed man of good sense, filled with the resolution to obtain for the great body of his fellow-creatures that high improvement, which both their understandings and their morals are, by nature, fitted to receive, may labour in this good work with the certainty of success, if he have only that blessing of leisure, for the sake of which riches are chiefly to be coveted. Such a one, however averse by taste or habit, to the turmoil of public affairs, or the more ordinary strifes of the world, may in all quiet and innocence, enjoy the noblest gratification of which the most aspiring nature is susceptible; he may influence by his single exertions the character and fortunes of a whole generation, and thus wield a power to be envied even by vulgar ambition, for the extent of its dominion-to be cherished by virtue itself for the unalloyed blessings it bestows.-Brougham. SYMPATHY FORBEARANCE. wealth and property which society is united to defend, and that which it is united to pull down.- Westminster Review. MOTIVES TO MUTUAL CHARITY. If three children, born four months ago, were to be brought up in separate apartments in a hermitage, entirely shut out from all the world and taught nothing, only fed and kept clean by a dumb man, dressed unlike any creature on the earth,-let them be brought out and examined at 21 years of age-each of them would have a yelp, a groan, or sigh, peculiar to man-none of them could speak, or understand any thing-they would not know a man, beast, bird, plant or tree-they would have no idea of God, angels, devils, heaven, or hell-they would not even know that they themselves must die; such is the state of untaught man! Again,-If three children were born, four months ago, of Protestant parents-one by the wife of an Aristocrat; one by the wife of a beggar; one by the wife of a tradesman,--send the first to be brought up and educated by a Mahometan, in Turkey; the second to be brought up and educated by a Roman Catholic, in Spain; the third to be brought up and educated by a Jew, in Amsterdam. Let these meet in London when they are 21 The wisest and best men have always been the most indulgent. It has been finely said, "that indulgence is a jus-years of age. The Aristocrat's son will be a Mahometan; tice which frail humanity has a right to expect from wisdom. Nothing has a greater tendency to dispose us to indulgence, to close our hearts against hatred, and to open them to the principles of a humane and mild morality, than a profound knowledge of the human heart. In this view, Wordsworth's rambling poem of Peter Bell is worth a volume of ethics. The wisest men have, accordingly always been the most indulgent. It was the saying of Plato, “Live with your inferiors and domestics, as with unfortunate friends." "Must I always," says an Indian philosopher, "hear the rich crying out, Lord destroy all who take from us the least part of our possessions; while the poor man, with a plaintive voice and eyes lifted up to Heaven, cries, Lord! give me a small part of the goods dealt out in profusion to the rich' if others less fortunate deprive me of a portion, instead of imprecating Thy vengeance, I shall consider these thefts in the same manner as in seed time we see the doves ranging over the fields in quest of their food." LONDON-FROM ST. PAUL'S.-Few objects are so sublime if by sublimity we understand that which completely fills the imagination, to the utmost measure of its powers as the view of a huge city thus seen at once. It was a sight which awed me and made me melancholy. I was looking down upon the habitations of a million of human beings; upon the single spot whereon were crowded together more wealth, more splendour, more ingenuity, more wordly wisdom, and, alas! more worldly blindness, poverty, depravity, dishonesty, and wretchedness than upon any other spot in the whole habitable earth!-Southey. UNIVERSITIES AND SCHOOLS. The institutions of men grow old, like men themselves, and, like women, they are always the last to perceive their own decay. When Universities were the only schools of learning, they were of great and important utility; as soon as there were others, they ceased to be the best, because their forms were prescribed, and they could adopt no improvement till long after it was generally acknowledged.-Ibid. DISHONEST WEALTH.-It is not wealth that is the evil; it is the habit of dishonesty that wealth has got into. The moment a man gets wealth, he begins to cast about for the means of getting more by the plunder of his neighbours; and the government of the country, from the memory of living men to the late accession of the Whig and Radical dynasty, has been one great joint-stock committee of management, for the organization of the plans of individuals upon this point into an operative whole. Once or oftener has the resistance to it been put down, by the skill of the plunderers in confounding the attack on unjust wealth with attacks on wealth in the abstract, and the awkwardness of the assailants in leaving pegs for the fallacy to hang upon. But honest men, as well as the devil, may grow wiser than of yore; and on no point have they attained more light, than on the distinction between that kind of the beggar's son a Roman Catholic; the tradesman's son a Jew. Now mark, ali thee were born of Christian parents, professing the Protestant religion; and if they had been brought up and educated by their parents, they would all have been Protestant Christians instead of a Mahometan, a Roman Catholic, and a Jew. No man that ever reasoned will believe, that any responsibility can possibly attach to the belief or religion of any of these three young men ; and, if so, no reasonable being can believe that any responsibility can attach to himself for his belief, whether it be true or false: therefore, there neither can be merit or demerit for any man's religious belief. Now, it is evident from this, that every sect should have kind feelings for each other, and should esteem each other, as if they all believed alike. Each man has only to say to himself, "If I had been brought up and educated as my friend has been, who professes a religion different from mine, 1 should believe as he now does." These facts of nature must speak conviction to every unprejudiced mind: by them all the sects in the world may learn how to be undeceived, and to "love one another." ARTIFICIAL MAN. THE following passage has been pronounced by Wordsworth, the poet, "one of the finest in the English language." It forms a note to the Poem of the Hurricane. Milton might have owned it with pride. "A man is supposed to improve by going out into the world, by visiting London: Artificial man does ; he extends with his sphere; but, alas! the sphere is microscopic; it is formed of minutiæ, and he surrenders his genuine vision to the artist in order to embrace it in his ken. His bodily senses grow acute even to barren and inhuman pruriency, while his mental become proportionally obtuse. The reverse is the MAN OF MIND: he who is placed in the sphere of Nature and of God might be a mock at Tattersall's and Brooke's, and a sneer at St. James's; he would certainly be swallowed alive by the first Pizarro that crossed him :but when he walks along the River of Amazons; when he rests his eye on the unrivalled Andes; when he measures the long and watered Savannah; or contemplates from a sudden promontory the distant, vast, Pacific; and feels himself a free man in this vast threatre, and commanding each ready-produced fruit of this wilderness, and each progeny of this stream, his exaltation is not less than im, perial. He is as gentle too as he is great; his emotions of tenderness keep pace with his elevation of sentiment; for he says these were made by a good Being, who unsought by me, placed me here to enjoy them. He becomes at once a child and a king. His mind is in himself; from hence he argues, and from hence he acts; and he argues unerringly, and acts magisterially; his mind in himself is also in his God, and therefore he loves, and therefore he soars. THE STORY TELLER. ELIZABETH VILLIERS. A TALE FOR THE YOUNG. My father is the curate of a village church, about five miles from Amwell. I was born in the parsonage house, which joins the church-yard. The first thing I can remember was my father teaching me the alphabet from the letters on a tombstone that stood at the head of my nother's grave. I used to tap at my father's study-door: I think I now hear him say, "Who is there? What do you want, little girl" "Go and see mamma. Go and learn pretty letters." Many times in the day would my father lay aside his books and his papers to lead me to this spot, and make me point to the letters, and then set me to spell syllables and words. In this manner the epitaph on my mother's tomb being my primer and spelling-book, I learned to read. I was one day sitting on a step placed across the churchyard stile, when a gentleman passing by, heard me distinctly repeat the letters which formed my mother's name, and then say, Elizabeth Villiers, with a firm tone, as if I had performed some great matter. This gentleman was my uncle James, my mother's brother: he was a lieutenant in the navy, and had left England a few weeks after the marriage of my father and mother, and now returned home from a long sea-voyage, he was coming to visit my mother; no tidings of her decease having reached him, though she had been dead more than a twelvemonth. Betsy would one day sleep beside mamma in that grave; and when I went to my bed, as I laid my little head on the pillow, I used to wish I was sleeping in the grave with my papa and mamma; and in my childish dreams I used to fancy myself there; and it was a place within the ground, all smooth, and soft, and green. I never made out any figure of mamma, but still it was the tombstone, and papa, and the smooth green grass, and my head resting upon the elbow of my father. How long my uncle remained in this agony of grief I know not; to me it seemed a very long time. At last he took me in his arms, and held me so tight that I began to cry, and ran home to my father, and told him that a gentleman was crying about mamma's pretty letters. No doubt it was a very affecting meeting between my father and my uncle. I remember that it was the very first day I ever saw my father weep; that I was in sad trouble, and went into the kitchen, and told Susan, our servant, that papa was crying; and she wanted to keep me with her, that I might not disturb the conversation; but I would go back to the parlour to poor papa, and I-went in softly, and crept between my father's knees. My uncle offered to take me in his arms, but I turned sullenly from him, and clung closer to my father, having conceived a dislike to my uncle, because he made my father cry. Now I first learned that my mother's death was a heavy affliction; for I heard my father tell a melancholy story of her long illness, her death, and what he had suffered from When my uncle saw me sitting on the stile, and heard her loss. My uncle said, what a sad thing it was for my me pronounce my mother's uame, he looked earnestly in my father to be left with such a young child; but my father face, and began to fancy a resemblance to his sister, and to replied, his little Betsy was all his comfort, and that, but think I might be her child. I was too intent on my em- for me, he should have died with grief. How I could be ployment to observe him, and went spelling on. "Whoany comfort to my father struck me with wonder. I knew has taught you to spell so prettily, my little maid?" said I was pleased when he played and talked with me; but I my uncle. "Mamma," I replied; for I had an idea that thought that was all goodness and favour done to nie, and the words on the tomb-stone were somehow a part of mam- I had no notion how I could make any part of his happima, and that she had taught me. "And who is mamma ?" ness. The sorrow I now heard he had suffered, was as new asked my uncle. "Elizabeth Villiers," I replied; and then and strange to me. I had no idea that he had ever been my uncle called me his dear little niece, and said he would unhappy; his voice was always kind and cheerful; I had go with me to mamma; he took hold of my hand, intending never before seen him weep, or shew any such signs of grief to lead me home, delighted that he had found out who I was, as those in which I used to express my little troubles. My because he imagined it would be such a pleasant surprise to thoughts on these subjects were confused and childish; but his sister to see her little daughter bringing home her long from that time I never ceased pondering on the sad story of lost sailor uncle. my dead mamma. I agreed to take him to mamma, but we had a dispute about the way thither. My uncle was for going along the road which led directly up to our house: I pointed to the church-yard, and said, that was the way to mamma. Though impatient of any delay, he was not willing to contest the point with his new relation, therefore he lifted me over the stile, and was then going to take me along the path to a gate he knew was at the end of our garden; but no, I would not go that way neither; letting go his hand, I said, "You do not know the way; I will shew you;" and making what haste 1 could among the long grass and thistles, and jumping over the low graves, he said, as he followed what he called my wayward steps "What a positive soul this little niece of mine is! I knew the way to your mother's house before you were born, child." At last I stopped at my mother's grave, and pointing to the tombstone said, "Here is mamma!" in a voice of exultation, as if I had now convinced him that I knew the way best; I looked up in his face to see him acknowledge his mistake; but, oh! what a face of sorrow did I see! I was so frightened, that I have but an imperfect recollection of what followed. I remember I pulled his coat, and cried, "Sir, sir!" and tried to move him. I knew not what to do; my mind was in a strange confusion; I thought I had done something wrong, in bringing the gentleman to mamma to make him cry so sadly; but what it was I could not tell. This grave had always been a scene of delight to me. In the house my father would often be weary of my prattle, and send me from him; but here he was all my own. I might say anything, and be as frolick some as I pleased here; all was cheerfulness and good humour in our visits to mamma, as we called it. My father would tell me how quietly mamma slept there, and that he and his little The next day I went by mere habit to the study door, to call papa to the beloved grave; my mind misgave me, and I could not tap at the door. I went backwards and forwards between the kitchen and the study, and what to do with myself I did not know. My uncle met me in the passage, and said, "Betsy, will you come and walk with me in the garden?" This I refused, for this was not what I wanted, but the old amusement of sitting on the grave, and talking to papa. My uncle tried to persuade me, but still said, "No, no," and ran crying into the kitchen. As he followed me in there, Susan said, "This child is so fretful to-day, I do not know what to do with her." "Aye," said my uncle, "I suppose my poor brother spoils her, having but one." This reflection on my papa made me quite in a little passion of anger, for I had not forgot that with this new uncle, sorrow had first come into our dwelling: I screamed loudly, till my father came out to know what it was all about. He sent my uncle into the parlour, and said, he would manage the little wrangler by himself. When my uncle was gone, I ceased crying; my father forgot to lecture me for my ill humour, or to enquire into the cause, and we were soon seated by the side of the tombstone. No lesson went on that day; no talking of pretty mamma sleeping in the green grave; no jumping from the tombstone to the ground; no merry jokes or pleasant stories. I sat upon my father's knee, looking up in his face, and thinking, "How sorry papa looks," till, having been fatigued with crying, and now oppressed with thought, I fell fast asleep. My uncle soon learned from Susan, that this place was our constant haunt; she told him she did verily believe her master would never get the better of the death of her mistress, while he continued to teach the child to read at the tombstone; for, though it might soothe his grief, it kept it for ever fresh in his memory. The sight of his sister's grave had been such a shock to my uncle, that he readily entered into Susan's apprehensions; and concluding, that if I were set to study by some other means, there would no longer be a pretence for these visits to the grave; away my kind uncle hastened to the nearest market-town to buy me some books. I heard the conference between my uncle and Susan, and I did not approve of his interfering in our pleasure. I saw him take his hat and walk out, and I secretly hoped he was gone beyond seas again, from whence Susan had told me he had come. Where beyond seas was I could not tell; but I concluded it was somewhere a great way off. I took my seat on the church-yard stile, and kept looking down the road, and saying, "I hope I shall not see my uncle again. I hope my uncle will not come from beyond seas any more:" but I said this very softly, and had a kind of notion that I was in a perverse ill-humoured fit. Here I sat till my uncle returned from the market-town with his new purchases. I saw him come walking very fast with a parcel under his arm. I was very sorry to see him, and I frowned, and tried to look very cross. He untied his parcel, and said, “Betsy, I have brought you a pretty book." I turned my head away, and said, "I don't want a book;" but I could not help peeping again to look at it. In the hurry of opening the parcel, he had scattered all the books upon the ground, and there I saw fine gilt-covers and gay pictures all fluttering about. What a fine sight!-All my resentment vanished, and I held up my face to kiss him, that being my way of thanking my father for any extraordinary favour. My uncle had brought himself into rather a troublesome office; he had heard me spell so well, that he thought there was nothing to do but to put books into my hand, and I should read; yet, notwithstanding I spelt tolerably well, the letters in my new library were so much smallar than I had been accustomed to, they were like Greek characters to me; I could make nothing at all of them. The honest sailor was not to be discouraged by this difficulty; though unused to play the schoolmaster, he taught me to read the small print, with unwearied diligence and patience; and whenever he saw my father and me look as if he wanted to resume our visits to the grave, he would propose some pleasant ramble; and if my father said it was too far for the child to walk, he would set me on his shoulder, and say, "Then Betsey shall ride;" and in this manner has he carried me many, many miles. In these pleasant excursions my uncle seldom forgot to make Susan furnish him with a luncheon, which, though it generally happened every day, made a constant surprise to my papa and me, when, seated under some shady tree, he pulled it out of his pocket, and began to distribute his little store; and then I used to peep into the other pocket, to see if there were not some currant wine there, and the little bottle of water for me; if, perchance, the water was forgot, then it made another joke,—that poor Betsy must be forced to drink a little drop of wine. These are childish things to tell of; and, instead of my own silly history, I wish I could remember the entertaining stories my uncle used to relate of his voyages and travels, while we sat under the shady trees, eating our noon-tide meal. The long visit my uncle made us was such an important event in my life, that I fear I shall tire your patience with talking of him, but when he is gone, the remainder of my story will be but short. My books were now my chief amusement, though my studies were often interrupted by a game of romps with my uncle, which too often ended in a quarrel, because he played so roughly; yet long before this I dearly loved my uncle, and the improvement I made while he was with us was very great indeed. I could now read very well, and the continual habit of listening to the conversation of my father and my uncle, made me a little woman in understandiug; so that my father said to him, "James, you have made my child quite a companionable little being." My father often left me alone with my uncle; sometimes to write his sermons, sometimes to visit the sick, or give counsel to his poor neighbours; then my uncle used to hold long conversations with me, telling me how I should strive to make my father happy, and endeavour to improve myself when he was gone;-now I began justly to understand why he had taken such pains to keep my father from visiting my mother's grave, that grave which I often stole privately to look at; but now never without awe and reverence; for my uncle used to tell me what an excellent lady my mother was, and I now thought of her as having been a real mamma, which before seemed an ideal something, no way connected with life. And he told me that the ladies from the Manor-house, who sate in the best pew in the church, were not so graceful, and the best women in the village were not so good, as was my sweet mamma; and that if she had lived, I should not have been forced to pick up a little knowledge from him, a rough sailor, or to learn to knit and sew of Susan, but that she would have taught me all lady-like fine works, and delicate behaviour, and perfect manners, and would have selected for me proper books, such as were most fit to instruct my mind, and of which he nothing knew. If ever in my life I shall have any proper sense of what is excellent or becoming in the womanly character, I owe it to these lessons of my rough unpolished uncle; for, in telling me what my mother would have made nie, he taught me what to wish to be; and when, soon after my uncle left us, I was introduced to the ladies at the Manor-house, instead of hanging down my head with shame, as I should have done before my ancle came, like a little village rustic, I tried to speak distinctly, with ease, and a modest gentleness, as my uncle had said my mother used to do: instead of hanging down my head abashed, I looked upon them, and thought what a pretty sight a fine lady was, and how well my mother must have appeared, since she was so much more graceful than these high ladies were; and when I heard them compliment my father on the admirable behaviour of his child, and say how well he had brought me up, I thought to myself, "Papa does not much mind my manners, if I am but a good girl; but it was my uncle that taught me to behave like mamma." I cannot now think my uncle was so rough and unpolished as he said he was for his lessons were so good and so impressive, that I shall never forget them, and I hope they will be of use to me as long as I live: he would explain to me the meaning of all the words he used, such as grace and elegance, modest diffidence and affectation, pointing out instances of what he meant by those words, in the manners of the ladies and their young daughters who came to our church; for besides the ladies of the Manor-house, many of the neighbouring Families came to our church, because my father preached so well. It must have been early in the spring when my uncle went away, for the crocuses were just blown in the garden," and the primroses had begun to peep from under the young budding hedge-rows. I cried as if my heart would break, when I had the last sight of him through a little opening among the trees, as he went down the road. My father accompanied him to the market-town, from whence he was to proceed in the stage-coach to London. How tedious I thought all Susan's endeavours to comfort me were. The stile where I first saw my uncle, came into my mind, and I thought I would go and sit there, and think about that day; but I was no sooner seated there, than I remembered how I had frightened him, by taking him so foolishly to my mother's grave, and then again how naughty I had been In the winter our walks were shorter and less frequent. when I sate muttering to myself at this same stile, wishing The summer months passed away, but not swiftly;-the pleasant walks, and the charming stories of my uncle's adventures, made them seem like years to me; I remember the approach of winter by the warm great coat he bought for me, and how proud I was when I first put it on; and that he called me Little Red Riding Hood, and bade me beware of wolves; and that I laughed, and said there were no such things now: then he told me how many wolves, and bears, and tigers, and lions, he had met with in uninhabited lands, that were like Robinson Crusoe's island. O these were happy days! Some days after this, as I was sitting by the fire with my father, after it was dark, and before the candles were lighted, I gave him an account of my troubled conscience at the church-stile, when I remembered how unkind I had been to my uncle when he first came, and how sorry I still was, whenever I thought of the many quarrels I had had with him. that he, who had gone so far to buy me books, might never | excellent and virtuous pairs to whom Scotland come back any more: all my little quarrels with my uncle owes her high moral and religious character came into my mind, now that I could never play with him again, and it almost broke my heart. I was forced to run among the nations of Europe. The father was a into the house to Susan, for that consolation I had just be- person of uncommon worth and intelligence, but fore despised. not one of those whose portion is of this world.* The school education of Robert Burns was scanty and precarious, though his father made great exertions to educate all the family. At an age when boys more prosperously situated are dividing their time between learning and amusement, Burns was exerting himself above his strength to assist his father and his father's family-at the age of a boy doing a man's work-ill-fed, and probably not very well-clothed; and, worse than all, feeling, with all the torturing sensibility of genius, the miseries arising to himself and those he loved from great poverty and unavoidable misfortune. The pity that is felt for his misfortunes in afterlife may be alloyed by blame of his conduct, but our sympathy for Burns and his virtuous relatives, during this season of his early hardships, is an unWhat generous mingled and a holy feeling. My father smiled, and took hold of my hand, saying, "I will tell you all about this, my little penitent. This is the sort of way in which we all feel, when those we love are taken from us. When our dear friends are with us, we go on enjoying their society, without much thought or consideration of the blessing we are possessed of, nor do we too nicely weigh the measure of our daily actions; we let them freely share our kind or our discontented moods: and, if any little bickerings disturb our friendship, it does but the more endear us to each other when we are in a happier temper. But these things come over us like grievous faults when the object of our affection is gone for ever. Your dear mamma and I had no quarrels; yet in the first days of my lonely sorrow, how many things came into my mind, that I might have done to have made her happier. It is so with you, my child. You did all a child could do to please your uncle, and dearly did he love you; and these little things which now disturb your tender mind, were remembered with delight by your uncle; he was telling me in our last walk, just perhaps as you were thinking about it with sorrow, of the difficulty he had in getting into your good graces when he first came he will think of these things with pleasure when he is far away. Put away from you this unfounded grief; only let it be a lesson to you, to be as kind as possible to those you love; and remember, when they are gone from you, you will never think you had been kind enough. Such feelings as you have now described, are the lot of humanity. So you will feel when I am no more, and so will your children feel when you are dead. But your uncle will come back again, Betsy, and we will now think of where we are to get the cage to keep the talking parrot in, he is to bring home; and go and tell Susan to bring the candles, and ask her if the nice cake is ⚫ almost baked, that she promised to give us for our tea. : [I have heard this beautiful story attributed to Elia, to the sister of Elia, and also to other female writers.—I cannot say to whom its authorship belongs: nor is this of much consequence.] ROBERT BURNS. BORN 1758-Died 1796. The leading circumstances of the life of Burns are so familiarly known to every class of readers, that it seems superfluous to go over them, unless in a manner very different from what can be attempted in this limited publication. His own eloquent and energetic letters, wherever his genuine feelings guided his pen, afford the truest insight into his manly, and, in many points, noble character, as a man and a man of genius. His single letter to Dr. Moore is one of the most precious morsels of autobiography that the world possesses. Yet there is pleasure in enumerating the important circumstances of the life of Burns however cursorily, for they are all such as do honour to his memory. Robert Burns was the eldest son of William Burness or Burns, and Agnes Brown, a couple in almost the lowest class of rural life in what was at that time a poor country. They were one of those young person ever perused the following passage of Burns' celebrated letter to Dr. Moore, without feeling his heart overflow with tenderness, and his spirit burn with indignation! "My father was advanced in life when he married; I was the eldest of seven children; and he, worn out by early hardships, was unfit for labour. My father's spirit was soon irritated, but not easily broken. There was a freedom in his lease in two years more; and to weather these we retrenched our expenses. We lived very poorly. I was a dexterous ploughman for my age; and the next eldest to me was a brother (Gilbert), who could drive very well, and help me to thrash the corn. A novel-writer might perhaps have viewed these scenes with some satisfaction; but so did not I. My indignation yet boils at the recollection of the sl factor's insolent threatening letters, which used to set us all in tears." In this manner the last years of the boyhood of Burns, and the first of his youthful manhood, were passed, sustained by nothing save the warmth of his affections and the strength of his good spirit. If it were possible for penury, neglect, and misfortune, to depress and to extinguish genius, the mind of Burns must have been early crushed into dulness; but, as is said of another vivifying principle, "Many strong waters cannot quench it, neither can the fire consume it." At the age of twenty-four, his younger brothers being now able to assist their father in the management of their unlucky farm, Robert tried to establish himself as a flax-dresser in Irvine. This project failed; by an accident his premises took fire; and, in conjunction with his brother Gilbert, he took a small farm. In his letters, Burns often jocularly speaks of his own early imprudence and want of thought, and probably over-rates his faults. None of the biographers of Burns mention his mother, save as an excellent wife and mother in her rank of life. I have heard a gentleman-himself a poet and a man of feeling and genius-who had opportunities of seeing this venerable matron in her latter years, say, that the mother was the poetical ancestor of Burns. This old lady certainly possessed something of her son's magical power o teloquence. In describing to my informant the localities of their residence near Alloway Kirk, the birth-place of the poet, she talked quite naturally of their hearing on dark nights "the sea roaring on the shore, and the sealghs yowling," in language more bold and figurative than ever cottage ina ron used befo.c.-EDITOR. |
