him so deeply as the circumstance of the band of two they should be handling a quadrant. It infatuates every regiments striking up The Campbells are coming,' as one, said they, who is so unhappy as to be touched with he entered the dockyard. The writer of this well recol- it. He is often more attentive to every change of countelects with what humour he told the following anecdote:-nance in a celebrated beauty than to the phases of the Soon after the publication of his 'Gertrude,' he was in- moon; and is more anxious to be acquainted with all her vited to a friend's house in the country to pass a day or manoeuvres than with the motions of the whole planetary two, and was received with every attention and kindness. system. One in particular affirmed, upon his knowledge, His friend had a daughter, a lively little girl of about six that he had been acquainted with students in anatomy, or seven years of age, who had been previously warned by who looked with niorc curiosity into the countenance of a her mother to show great respect to their guest, for he young beauty than upon the dissection of a bullock's eye. was no less a personage than the illustrious author of the Some, who pretended to see much farther than the vulgar, Pleasures of Hope. The child at first stood in consider- considered every thing relating to love as capricious and able awe of the poet, not exactly comprehending what visionary. Since we are all formed of the same materisort of visiter he could be; but won by the frankness and als, it seemed to them very unreasonable that a little difplayfulness of his manner, she soon became quite familiar ference in form and colour should raise such violent comwith him. She had not, however, forgotten the phrase motions. Beauty, they said, was but a superficial coverof her mother, and archly repeated it on all occasions, ing, and every thing at the bottom was alike. Upon this although she could not pronounce the word illustrious. principle, they looked upon it as the height of philosophy When at any time Campbell entered the room where she to view with indifference what has always given mankind was, she would cry out 'Oh! here comes the issustious author the greatest pleasure. This humour they carried so far of the Pleasures of Hope;' and when he went out she that they lamented they could not strip nature herself of would bawl after him, 'There goes the issustious author her delusions, as they termed them, by taking off those of the Pleasures of Hope.' Night and day, morning, agreeable colourings of light and shade which lie upon obnoon, and eve, as long as he remained there, she repeated jects around us, and give them all their richness and beauty. the phrase like a cuckoo-note, and its constant iteration, They would have been glad to have turned the creation which the parents endeavoured in vain to repress, caused into a colourless and dreary waste, that they might have nim considerable amusement. Campbell was particularly wandered up and down, and taken a closer survey of it. fond of children, especially if they were girls. The story The next class of petitioners I observed, were the men of his advertising for a little girl, with whose archness, of business. They set out with remarking that they did and liveliness, and childish beauty, he was one day smit- not join in the complaints that were made against love ten while taking his usual walk in St James' Park, is upon their own account; for though they had been weak well known. enough, in the younger part of their lives, to fall under its influence, it was many years since they had felt the slightest impression of it. They had in view the welfare of their children, and, this being neither more nor less than their affluence, they were led to consider love chiefly in the light of an expensive passion. Its little tendernesses and endearments appeared to them inexpressibly ridiculous, and they wondered how any body could be foolish enough to spend hours in tattling to women, without thinking to gain a farthing by it. They gave a long list of young men, who had been frugal and industrious, till they were enticed by love to prefer pleasure to profit. They declared that when we take an account of balls and treats, and trinkets of various kinds, with the loss of time inseparably attendant upon them, it was at the peril of a fortune to attempt the heart of a beloved object. I was a good deal amused with the manner in which they treated of love; they considered it as they would any other commodity, setting a price upon every part of it. They reckon a sigh at a shilling, and, if it chance to be observed by the person for whom it is intended, it is well even if half-a-guinea clear the expense of it. A side glance was rated at half as much as a full view; they portioned out all the parts of a beautiful person, and made a valuation of each of them. The same scale was applied to their very attitudes: for the sight of a beautiful woman dancing was accounted a matter of enormous expense; and, if she chanced to smile with any degree of complacency upon any one, it was well if he was not ruined; under these impressions, they considered love as the certain forerunner of poverty. Having brought down the sketch of his life to the period of the publication of Gertrude of Wyoming,' in 1809, we shall continue it in our succeeding number. THE VALUE OF AFFECTION. A REVERIE: BY ROBERT HALL. AFTER reading some passages in the fourth book of Virgil, in which he paints the distress of Dido, upon her being deserted by Æneas, I could not help revolving in my mind, with a good deal of uneasiness, the miseries of love. My reflections threw me into a Reverie, which presented to my mind an imaginary train of circumstances, which I shall now relate, hoping they may tend to cherish that virtuous sensibility which is the ornament of our nature. My fancy naturally carried me into the times of heathenish superstition, which I hope will be my apology for mentioning gods and goddesses. I imagined that the power of love had occasioned general discontent, and that the different orders of men had entered into an agreement to petition Jupiter for her removal. I thought that at the head of these complainers stood the men of learning and science; they lamented with vehemence the inroads of love, and that it often betrayed them from the paths of knowledge, into perplexity and intrigue. They alleged that it extinguished, in the bosom of the young, all thirst after laudable improvement, and planted in its stead frivolous and tormenting desires. That the pursuit of truth called for a tranquil and serene state of mind; whilst love was constantly attended with tumult and alarm. Whatever turn she takes, said they, she will ever be an enemy to labour; her smiles are too gay, and her disappointments too melancholy, for any serious application. They were grieved to see that so trifling a passion should occupy so much time and attention, and that man, who was formed to contemplate the heavens and the earth, should spend half his life in gaining the good graces of the weaker and more inconsiderable part of his species. I thought I perceived that this turn for love and gallantry gave particular offence to the whole tribe of astronomers and profound philosophers. They saw, with indignation, that many of our youth were more anxious to explain a look than to solve a problem, and that they would often be playing with a fan when There was one complaint raised against this passion, which I thought had something in it more plausible than any I have yet mentioned; it turned upon the ease with which it makes its approaches upon us, and the impossibility of guarding against its first advances. We have been able, said they, by art to manage the elements, so as in general to prevent any dangerous overflowings of them. We brave the storm in ships, and dive into the sea in bells; but the ingenuity of man has hit upon no contrivance to save us from the influence of love. Could we call it in to amuse a leisure hour, or to relieve the languor of a few tedious moments, and then dismiss it again, it might be esteemed a blessing in a life so barren of enjoyment. But it is an influence that is shed all around us, and pours itself upon us in every corner. It often lies hid betwixt the keys of a harpsichord, and is shaken out with a few touches of the fingers. It flounces in an apron, and is trailed along with a flowing robe. No circumspection can preserve us from it; for it will often steal upon us when we are least upon our guard. It hides itself in a lock, and waves in ringlets of the hair. It will enter by an eye, an ear, a hand, or a foot. A glance and a gaze are sometimes equally fatal. I was next presented with a scene which I thought as interesting and solemn as can enter into the imagination of man. This was no other than a view of the whole train of disappointed lovers. At the sight of them, my heart insensibly melted into the most tender compassion. There was an extreme dejection, mingled with a piercing wildness in their looks, that was very affecting. Cheerfulness and serenity, I could easily perceive, they had long been strangers to. Their countenances were overspread with a gloom which appeared to be of long standing, and to be collected there from dark and dismal imaginations. There was, at the same time, all that kind of animation in their features which betokens troubled thoughts. Their air and manner was altogether singular, and such as marks a spirit at once eager and irresolute. Their step was irregular, and they ever and anon started and looked around them, as though they were alarmed by some secret terror. I was somewhat surprised, in looking through the whole assembly, not to see any one that wept. When they were arrived at the place where they had determined to present their united petitions, I was particularly attentive to observe every thing that passed. Though I listened, I could not learn any thing distinctly. After an interval of profound silence, a murmur only of broken sighs and piercing exclamations was heard through the assembly. I should have mentioned that some of them fell off before they had got to the place of rendezvous. They halted for some time, and continued in a melancholy suspense, whether they should turn back or go forward. They knew not which to prefer, the tranquillity of indifference or the tender distresses of love; at length they inclined to the latter, not having resolution even to wish for the extinction of a passion which mingled itself with the very elements of their existence. " Why,' said they, should we banish from our minds the image of all that is pleasing and delightful, and which, if we could once forget, there would be nothing left in the world worth remembering? The agitation and anxiety felt upon this occasion, could I lay it fully open to the reader, would form a much more interesting picture than the deliberations of Cæsar, whether he should pass the Rubicon. I imagined there were several other distinct bodies of men, who complained to the heavenly powers of the tyranny of love, but, the particulars having in a great measure faded from my memory, the reader must excuse my passing them over in silence. I must not, however, forget to observe, that the number and unanimity of those who presented their petitions on the occasion were such, that they might fairly be considered as representing the sentiments of far the greater part of mankind. Perhaps Providence never chastises the folly of men more justly than by granting the indulgence of their requests. Upon this occasion, I observed, their wishes were accomplished, and they were relieved from a tyranny of which they had so heavily complained. Upon an appointed day, the goddess of love took her flight to the higher regions, from which she had descended; her influence was at once withdrawn, and all her enchantments were broken up. I thought nothing could equal the joy that was expressed upon this occasion. The air rung with acclamations, and every man was in haste to congratulate his neighbour on his deliverance from a thraldom which had sunk the spirit and degraded the dignity of the human race. They seemed all to be lightened of a load, and to break forth with fresh vivacity and spirit. Every one imagined he was entering upon quite a new career, and that the world was laid fresh open before him. I could not help feeling an inward delight in seeing my fellow-creatures made at once so happy. At the same time I was anxious to know what would follow upon this new revolution, and particularly whether it would answer the high expectations that were formed from it. Upon my looking around, I was a witness to appearances which filled me with melancholy and regret. A total change had taken place in the whole train of human affairs, and I observed to my sorrow the change was every where for the worse. It was melancholy now to enter into company; for, instead of conversation enlivened by vivacity and wit, there was nothing heard but a drowsy humming, to the last degree tiresome and insipid. In the social intercourse of men the heart had no place; pleasure, and the desire of pleasing, were equally unknown. Those whom I had an opportunity of observing, I thought very much resembled the loungers and coxcombs of our day, who, without any view of receiving pleasure, mingle in a crowd, and engage in conversation, not to enjoy time, but to kill it. I now sought in vain for those friendly meetings at which I had often been present, where every one, desirous of adding something to the pleasure of the whole, drew forth the fairest ideas of his mind, and, by the display of tender sentiments, melted the heart, and soothed the imagination. With what regret did I recollect those conversation parties in which my heart was wont to be full, and to pour itself forth as we talked ourselves alternately into sadness and into joy! I had an opportunity of correcting a mistake, into which I had fallen, in imagining that love reached only to courtship and marriage; I saw that it insensibly mingles with our most trifling actions, refining our thoughts, and polishing our manners, when we are least aware of it. The men had now entirely thrown aside that tenderness and gallantry which are the great ornaments of human nature, and are so peculiarly needful to temper, and soften the rudeness of masculine strength. Men and women were now placed quite upon a level, so that the harmonious softness of the female voice was drowned in turbulence and noise. The ear was filled, but the heart was left empty. Politeness was exchanged for a tame civility, wit for merriment, and serenity for dulness. I began to think more highly than ever of the fair sex, and regarded them in a new light, as a beautiful mirror lying in the fancy of a lover, for him to dress his thoughts by. People were every where falling a prey to dejection, and complaining of the faintness of human enjoyments, as might well be expected, when the influence of love was withdrawn from them, which, by inspiring romantic hopes and romantic fears, keeps the mind always in motion, and makes it run clear and bright. You may be sure nothing could make a more ridiculous appearance than courtship, at a time when women retained their vanity, after they had lost their charms. Such is the force of habit, that you might often see a pretty creature twirling her fan, and playing off her little enchanting airs before her lover, who perhaps sat all that time perfectly insensible, fingering his buttons or picking his teeth. Vanity, I perceived, was a kind of instinct in women, that made them employ the whole artillery of their charms, when they knew they could do no execution. Indeed, their airs appeared so ridiculous now, in the eyes of the men, that they had often much ado to refrain from laughter. The coquettes particularly, in their flutterings to and fro, made as odd a figure as fish which should be frozen around in the very act of swimming. Out of respect to the ladies, however, I would compare them to the Grecian chiefs, who, according to the representation of the poets, carried with them so lively an impression of their former employments, that they would be marshalling their troops, and brandishing their swords, even in the shades below. However, the fair sex were soon relieved from this sort of ridicule. They no longer took any pains to smooth their brow, to soften their features into a smile, or to light up the beam of brightness in their eye. Careless of offending, where they knew they could not please, they became negligent in their persons, and vulgar in their air. I cannot express the regret I felt upon beholding the fairest and most beautiful part of the creation thus thrown into shade. I thought I perceived that the fine arts began to languish, the paintings that made their appearance at the time were neither boldly sketched, nor so brightly coloured, as those I was wont to survey; they were chiefly confined to still life. I observed, however, that the extinction of love affected poetry still more than painting. It no longer regaled the mind with descriptions of beauty; or softened it with tender distress. Its enchantment was entirely dissolved; that enchantment that will carry us from world to world without moving from our seat, will raise a visionary creation around us, will make us to rejoice when there is nothing to rejoice in, and tremble when there is nothing to alarm us. These interesting situations, which awaken the attention, and enchain the mind in solemn suspense, till it breaks forth into agony or rapture, now no longer existed in nature, and were no longer described by the poet; he wrote rather from memory than feeling, for the breath of inspiration had ceased. I thought I had but a very confused idea of the person of the goddess herself, for her raiment was so full of light and lustre that I could scarcely take a steady view of her. I observed, however, that her complexion was rather too glowing, and the motions of her eye too piercing and fiery for perfect feminine beauty. Her beauty, I thought, was too raised, and had too much glory in it, to be entirely attractive. I was very much astonished to observe that whoever she glanced her eye upon, immediately fell under the influence of the passion over which she presided. It was a very singular sight, to see a whole assembly, one after another, falling into love; and I was much entertained in observing the change it occasioned in the looks of each of them, according to their different temper and constitution. Some appeared wild and piercing, others dejected and melancholy. The features of several glowed with admiration, whilst others looked down with a timid and bashful respect. A trait of affectation was plainly to be discerned in all of them, as might well be expected from a passion the very first effect of which is to make one lose the possession of one's self. Several ladies in particular, seemingly careless and gay, were whispering Upon this occasion I was not at all suprised at the de- to those who stood next them, and assuming airs of parcline of eloquence. I have often thought love the nurse of ticular vivacity, whilst you might easily see their countesensibility, and that, if it were not cherished by this pas-nance was chequered with anxiety, lest they should chance sion, it would grow cold, and give way to a selfish indif- not to please those upon whom they had fixed their ference. My conjecture was now abundantly confirmed; affections. The greater part of the fair sex, however, I for though I saw many discourses, composed at this time, observed, smiled with an ineffable sweetness, nor could that were well argued, elegant, and correct, they all any thing appear more lovely than their features, upon wanted those essential touches that give language its which there was imprinted a tender reserve, mingled power of persuading. with modest complacency and desire. I imagined that after the goddess had thoroughly surveyed the assembly, and they had seated themselves into some degree of composure, she thus addressed them : One thing a good deal surprised me, and that was to observe that even the profound parts of learning were less attended to than ever. I was well aware that few apply themselves closely to study, but with the hope of sometimes displaying their acquisitions to the public; and I had imagined fame was a sufficient recompense for any toil human nature could sustain; but I was surprised to find that, in all great and noble undertakings, the desire of appearing respectable in the eyes of a beloved object was of more consequence than the general admiration of mankind. These I thought were not the only melancholy consequences that flowed from the departure of love. It may be sufficient, however, to observe in general, that human nature was becalmed, and all its finest emotions frozen into a torpid insensibility. The situation of mankind was truly pitiable. Strangers to the delicate pleasures of the heart, every thing around them looked cheerless and barren. Calamity left them nothing to hope, and prosperity gave them nothing to enjoy. I observed that they were now as desirous of bringing back the agency of love as they had been before to exclude it. At length, I imagined that Jupiter was touched with compassion at their unhappy situation, and appointed a day in which love was to revisit the abodes of men. An immense number of people, of all orders and ranks, and of every age and condition, assembled themselves, as you may suppose, to behold the descent of the goddess, and to hail her approach. The heavens, I thought, glowed as she descended, and so many beautiful streaks of light glanced along the surface of the sky that they divided it into separate tracts, brightened up every cloud within it, and turned the whole into an aerial landscape. The birds at the same time leaping among the branches, and warbling their sprightliest notes, filled the air with a confused melody of sounds that was inexpressibly delightful. Every thing looked brighter than before, every thing smelled sweeter, and seemed to offer up fresh incense to the goddess. The face of nature was changed, and the creation seemed to grow new again. My heart glowed with delight. I rejoiced in the renovation of nature, and was revived through my inmost powers. There thrilled through me a delightful sensation of freshness and novelty, similar to what a happy spirit may be supposed to feel when first he enters a new state of existence, and opens his eyes on immortality. 'Ye children of men, ye abound in the gifts of Providence, and many are the favours heaven has bestowed upon you. The earth teems with bounty, pouring forth the necessaries of life and the refinements of luxury. The sea refreshes you with its breeze, and carries you to distant shores upon its bosom; it links nation to nation in the bonds of mutual advantage, and transfers to every climate the blessings of all. To the sun you are indebted for the splendour of the day, and the grateful return of season; it is he who guides you as you wander through the trackless wilderness of space, lights up the beauties of nature around you, and makes her break forth into fruitfulness and joy. But, know that these, though delightful, are not the pleasures of the heart. They will not heal the wounds of fortune; they will not enchant solitude, or suspend the feeling of pain. Know that I only am mistress of the soul. To me it belongs to impart agony and rapture. Hope and despair, terror and delight, walk in my train. My power extends over time itself, as well as over all sublunary beings. It can turn ages into moments, and moments into ages. Lament not the dispensations of Providence, amongst which the bestowment of my influence is one. He who feels it may not be happy; but he who is a stranger to it must be miserable.' KNOWLEDGE OF LIFE. Books without the knowledge of life are useless; for what should books teach but the art of living? To study manners, however, only in coffee-houses, is more than equally imperfect. The minds of men who acquire no solid learning, and only exist on the daily forage that they pick up by running about, and snatching what drops from their neighbours as ignorant as themsslves, will never ferment into any knowledge valuable or durable; but like the light wines we drink in hot countries, please for the moment though incapable of keeping. In the study of mankind, much will be found to swim as froth, and much must sink as feculence, before the wine can have its effect, and become that noblest liquor, which rejoices the heart and gives vigour to the imagination.-Dr Johnson. THE DIAMOND RING. EDWARD MANSFIELD was the son of a wealthy Manchester merchant. Of a prepossessing manner and appearance, and cheerful disposition, he was a very general favourite. His age, at the time of our story, might be about twenty or twenty-one. His father intended him to become a merchant, and, with this view, was training him up in his own countinghouse. For a long while, young Mansfield was all that his father could wish him, steady and attentive to business, and exhibiting a great deal of general talent. But a melancholy and most unexpected change gradually took place. Having formed an acquaintance with a set of loose, reckless, young fellows, he contracted habits of intemperance and extravagance, spent his nights, and often his days, in the tavern, and, finally, entirely lost his father's confidence, and, of course, regard. As is not unusual in such cases, young Mansfield made repeated promises of amendment, but as often broke them. The natural consequences of such courses followed. He became more and more reckless and intemperate, until at length, in a fit of desperation, he enlisted in the -th regiment of foot, which was soon after ordered to Gib raltar. Young Mansfield's father was perfectly aware of the step his son had taken, and had been repeatedly importuned by friends to purchase his discharge, but this he peremptorily refused to do, saying that his son's conduct had been so very bad that he had determined he should be allowed to feel the full weight of its consequences. He had, in truth, resolved that Edward should be left to the experiences of a year or two's service in the army, which, he hoped, would bring him to his senses, and render him a wiser if not a better man. He had also determined, that if his son should then show symptoms of amendment, he would not only purchase his discharge, but reinstate him in the counting-house. home about the expiry of that time. The resolution On the bitterness of the parting between the lovers we need not enlarge. Suffice it to say, that according to use and wont in such cases, they swore eternal fealty to each other, and, with bursting hearts, 'tore themselves asunder.' But they did not do so without interchanging anticipations of a happy future. Edward told Emily that he expected he should soon have his discharge. That he would then return to England, and endeavour by good conduct to regain his father's favour. That succeeding in this, as he had no doubt he should, he would soon be in such a position as should enable him to come openly forward as a claimant for her hand. And, in the sanguineness of their affections, the lovers did not doubt the realization, in due time, of their delightful anticipations. In the afternoon of the day on which Emily sailed for England, Colonel's lady met him at the door, as he returned from parade, with the inquiry, whether he knew what had become of the diamond ring?' 'What diamond ring, Jess?' said her husband in reply. Why, your mother's, my dear. The ring she left to Emily, but which Emily has always insisted on my wearing. I left it on the mantle-piece in the parlour yesterday, and forgot it till to-day. It is now gone.' 'Very odd,' replied the Colonel, 'but I know nothing about it. I never saw it.' 'Well, James,' said his lady, there has been no one but ourselves in that room since, excepting Mansfield, and I must say, I strongly suspect he has taken it.' 'What! do you think so?' exclaimed the Colonel, fiercely, and at once imbibing the suspicions of his wife. We shall have that looked into directly." ActIn the mean time, Edward, as mentioned, had gone to ing with his usual promptitude, the Colonel sent inGibraltar with his regiment, where the improvement instantly for a serjeant, and having stated the circumstance his conduct, which his father rather hoped than expected, did, in time, really take place. Humble as Edward's position was, he had the good sense to endeavour to make the most of it, and soon became distinguished as one of the cleanest and smartest soldiers in the regiment. This circumstance, added to his superior education and manners, recommended him to the special favour of his Colonel, who appointed him, what is called in military phrase, his orderly. The duties of this appointment, which includes a sort of personal attendance on the Colonel-to receive and execute his commissions-necessarily brought Edward much about that officer's residence, and, consequently, in frequent contact with the various members of his family. Amongst the latter was Emily, the Colonel's only child, a beautiful girl of between seventeen and eighteen years of age. Great, however, as was the disparity, as regarded present position, between the Colonel's orderly and his daughter, it formed no hinderance to the springing up of an ardent attachment between them. An attachment it was, however, which they had to conceal with a trembling and watchful anxiety; for the Colonel was a proud and stern man, and the slightest suspicion on his part, of its existence, would have brought down his direst vengeance on the heads of the lovers,-on Mansfield for his presumption on his daughter for her undutifulness in disregarding the dignity of his position. In the mean time, months passed away, and the lovers continued to feast in secret on their love, which grew stronger by indulgence, until at length their existence, their very souls, became intertwined. While matters stood thus, Colonel —, at the urgent entreaties of some near relatives in England, resolved on sending Emily home, to complete her education, expecting that he himself should follow in about twelve months, as the regiment, he believed, would be ordered to him, desired him to go to Mansfield's room and search his knapsack for the missing ring. The serjeant did so, Mansfield being at the moment absent, and carefully turned out article after article, till he came to a small leathern bag or purse, in which were some coins. This he drew open, and emptied its contents on the table, amongst which out tumbled the diamond ring. The suspicions, then, of the Colonel's lady had been well founded. Mansfield's guilt was clear. He was instantly put under arrest, on the following day tried by a court-martial, and sentenced to receive five hundred lashes. The day of punishment came. The regiment was turned out. The unfortunate young man was tied up to the halberts, and the full measure of his sentence mercilessly inflicted. Mansfield, through all this trying scene, maintained the utmost composure of manner, and bore the terrible infliction, to which he had been doomed, without wincing— without allowing the slightest expression of pain to escape him. On being taken down, he was conveyed to the hospital, where, in despite of very efficient medical attendance, he, in a few days after, fevered and died. A result of the excessive severity of his punishment, aggravated by distress of mind. Shortly after Mansfield's death, the Colonel's lady casually mentioned the circumstance, in a letter to her sister in England, with whom her daughter, Emily, was then residing. On her aunt, who read the letter aloud, coming to the account of Mansfield's death, his crime, and punishment, the poor girl sprung from her seat, and seizing her aunt convulsively by the arm, uttered a piercing shriek, exclaiming, at the same time, in tones of the wildest despair, that it was she who had given the ring to Mansfield, as a parting token of love and affection. Such was, indeed, the truth, and the unfortunate young man, rather than betray the secret of her love, which he knew would have exposed her to the deepest wrath of a stern and unforgiving father, and, perhaps, have subjected her conduct to offensive remark, had borne the stigma of crime, and the pains of its punishment, silently and unflinchingly. When charged with the theft, he did not deny it. He said nothing. When under the biting lash he gave no hint of his innocence. When dying, he still kept his secret, and finally carried it with him to the grave. LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF SCOTTISH LIFE.* WE regard the publication in a cheap form, of Professor Wilson's Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life, as no small boon to the reading portion of the community. The older and costlier editions we are aware may be found in every town and village library; that we notice at present will, we feel assured, like Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, ere long have a place on the shelf of every cottage in the kingdom. The work, as its name indicates, has especial claims on Scotsmen, which they will not be slow to admit. This is true popularity,' remarked the poet Gray, on seeing a well-thumbed copy of Thomson's Seasons in a blacksmith's shop. The Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life have not exactly reached as yet this point of popularity: we venture to predict that they will do so. They are well worthy of it. We know few tales, or scenes, as perhaps they should rather be called, better fitted to improve the heart and strengthen its best affections. A warm religious spirit pervades the most of them, which more than compensates for certain other qualities in which, it must be admitted, they are deficient. If there be the absence of intricate and well-woven plot, kindling as he advances the interest of the reader, and keeping his curiosity keenly alive till he comes to the close of the narrative, there is the presence of things more useful by far, and, as many will think, more entertaining and delightful. Every page is replete with sentiments honourable to humanity, sentiments on the side of piety, truth, and virtue. There is a life-like reality in the incidents brought before us. There are displays of the best affections of the heart, which at once excite our sympathy and admiration. There is much, very much, to make the reader believe that Wilson is a being to be loved as well as admired; that he is a man of large and glowing affections, as well as high genius. There is much, very much, that does honour to his heart as well as his head. We do not recollect anything finer than the remark he is said to have made to his students when, on the occasion of his wife's death, he came into the classroom with a bundle of essays in his hand, and thus apologized for not having read them: The truth is, gentlemen, I could not see to read them in the dark valley of the shadow of death. None but a man of genius could have made such a speech, so intensely, we had almost said painfully beautiful. We detect the spirit that prompted it on almost every line of the Lights and Shadows.' We would not like to meet the man who could read with a dry eye stories like Blind Allan, Lilias Grieve, the Elder's Death-bed, and, indeed, we might name nearly all in the volume. The Minister's Widow' is an especial favourite with us. We have first the sickness and death of the christian pastor: then the departure of the widow with her three sons, William, Edward, and Harry, from the parish manse to the pleasant cottage at Sunnyside: their visits to their father's grave along with their mother: their choice of professions in the army and navy: the return of Harry, the dashing young midshipman, for one short week to his mother's fireside: the death of all the three, with scarce an interval between the events; for William was shot dead in an instant while leading the forlorn hope in storming an Indian fort: Edward' was found deal at Talavera with the colours of his regiment tied round his body;' and the ship of which poor Harry was wont to talk so proudly, was drifted by a hurricane 6 Edinburgh: BLACKWOOD & SONS. New Edition. on a reef of rocks and went to pieces, only fifty men out eight hundred being saved, to which number, however, the widow's darling son did not belong. Then we have the gloomy news of William's death reaching Sunnyside the pension settled on his mother as the reward of his gallantry-a letter from William himself, written shortly before his death, full of high spirits and warm affection and the thought, as again and again she perused it, that tore the widow's heart: the hand that wrote these lines is cold.' But deeper trials awaited her: 'this was the first blow only; ere the new moon was visible, the widow knew that she was altogether childless.' We are next told with what beautiful and christian composure she bore her sorrows and-but we shall let Professor Wilson tell the remainder. 'Such was the account of her, her sorrows, and her resignation, which I received on the first visit I paid to a family near Castle-Holm, after the final consummation of her grief. Well known to me had all the dear boys | been; their father and mine had been labourers in the same vineyard; and as I had always been a welcome visiter, when a boy, at the Manse of Castle-Holm, so had I been, when a man, at Sunnyside. Last time I had been | there, it was during the holidays, and I had accompanied the three boys on their fishing excursions to the lochs in the moor; and in the evenings pursued with them their humble and useful studies. So I could not leave CastleHolm without visiting Sunnyside, although my heart misgave me, and I wished I could have delayed it till another summer. I sent word that I was coming to see her, and I found her sitting in that well-known little parlour where I had partaken the pleasure of so many merry evenings, with those whose laughter was now extinguished. We sat for a while together speaking of ordinary topics, and then utterly silent. But the restraint she had imposed upon herself she either thought unnecessary any longer, or felt it to be impossible; and rising up, went to a little desk, from which she brought forth three miniatures, and laid them down upon the table before us, saying, Behold the faces of my three dead boys! So bright, breathing, and alive did they appear, that for a moment I felt impelled to speak to them, and to whisper their names. She beheld my emotion, and said unto me, Al Oh! could you believe that they are all dead! Does not that smile on Willy's face seem as if it were immortal! Do not Edward's sparkling eyes look so bright as if the mists of death could never have overshadowed them! and think-oh! think, that ever Henry's golden hair should have been draggled in the brine, and filled full, full, I doubt not, of the soiling sand! I put the senseless images one by one to my lips, and kissed their foreheads-for dearly had I loved these three brothers; and then I shut them up and removed them to another part of the room. I wished to speak, but I could not; and, looking on the face of her who was before me, I knew that her grief would find utterance, and that not until she had unburdened her heart could it be restored to repose. They would tell you, sir, that I bear my trials well; but it is not so. Many, many unresigned and ungrateful tears has my God to forgive in me, a poor, weak, and repining worm. most every day, almost every night, do I weep before these silent and beautiful phantoms; and when I wipe away the breath and mist of tears from their faces, there are they smiling continually upon me! Oh! death is a shocking thought, when it is linked in love with creatures so young as these! More insupportable is gushing tenderness than even dry despair; and, methinks, I could even bear to live without them, and never to see them more, if I could only cease to pity them! But that can never be. It is for them I weep, not for myself. If they were to be restored to life, would I not lie down with thankfulness into the grave? William and Edward were struck down, and died, as they thought, in glory and triumph. Death to them was merciful. But who can know, although they may try to dream of it in horror, what the youngest of them, my sweet Harry, suffered, through that long dark howling night of snow, when the ship was going to |