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fresh frae the heaven o' imagination! Yet you see the crust aften sticks in their throats-and they narrowly escape chokin'. Yet I love and venerate Sir Walter abune a' ither leevin' men except yoursell, sir, and for that reason try to thole his discourse. As to his ever hearin' richt ae single syllable o' what ye may be sayin' to him, wi' the maist freendly intent o' enlichtenin' his weak mind, you maun never indulge ony howp o' that kind-for o' a' the absent men when anither's speakin', that ever glowered in a body's face, without seemin' to ken even wha he's lookin' at, Sir Walter is the foremost-and gin he behaves in that gate to a man o' original genius like me, you may conceive his treatment o' the sumphs and sumphesses that compose fashionable society.

North.-James-be civil. Shepherd.-Yet tak up ony trash o' travels by ony outlandish foreigner through our kintra, and turn to the chapter, "Visit to Abbotsford," and be he frog-eatin' Frenchman, sneevlin' through his nose

North.-Or gross guttural German, groaning about Goethe

Shepherd. Or girnin' and grimacin' Italian, wi' his music and his macaroni, fiddlin' and fumblin' his way aiblins into marriage wi' some deluded lassie o' condition wi' the best o' Scottish bluid in her veins

North.-Sarcastic dog!

Shepherd. And one and all alike each with the peculiar loathsomeness belonging to the mode of adulation practised in his ain kintrabegin slabberin' and slimin' the illustrious baronet frae head to feet, till he is all over slaver. Hoo he maun scunner!

North-Perhaps not.

Shepherd. He maun. Then each Tramp begins to ring the same changes on his fool's bells about Sir Walter's poors o' conversation, his endless stores o' information, his inexhaustible mines o' intellectual treasures

North.-Stop, James-lay your hand on your heart, and tell mewe are quite alone, and you need not look at the screen, for there is nobody behind it-are you not jealous?

Shepherd.-Me jealous! and o' Sir Walter! As I shall answer to God at the great day of judgment, I am not! I glory in my country for his sake. But say-sir-unseal your lips and speak-should he, who of all men I ever kent is the least o' a tyrant, be thus served by slaves ?

North.-No great man of any age, James, during his mortal lifetime, ever so lived, by the peaceful power of genius, in the world's eye, and in the world's mind, and the world's heart, as Sir Walter Scott. Shepherd.-None whatsoever.

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have large collars cut in points, which fall very low before, and are terminated by a large acorn; these collars are attached to a small round pelerine, which reaches to the shoulders, and is much more advantageous to the shape than having the fulness of the mantle round the

upper part of the bust. A collet evasé, cut in points, falls over this pelerine. Sometimes these points are bordered by a narrow gold torsade.

EVENING DRESS.

A crape dress, over satin to correspond. The color is a new shade

The corsage is

of rose noisette. cut low, particularly on the shoulders, and drapé in front. Bêret sleeve, partially covered with a demi Mameluke sleeve of white gaze de Paris, looped at the points of the shoulders with knots of gauze ribbon. The skirt is decorated with points à revers; they are edged with white silk trimming, and are each ornamented with a knot of ribbon. The head-dress is a white crape bêret, of a very novel shape, adorned with a profusion of white ostrich feathers. Necklace, ear-rings, and bracelets, gold and rubies.

THE GATHERER. "Little things have their value.”

A Fable-Once upon a time, a man, somewhat in drink belike, raised a dreadful outcry at the corner of the marketplace, "That the world was all turned topsy-turvy; that the men and cattle were all walking with their feet uppermost; that the houses and earth at large, (if they did not mind it,) would fall into the sky; in short, that unless prompt cans were taken, things in general were on the high road to the devil.' As the people only laughed at him, he cried the louder and more vehemently; nay, at last, began objuring, foaming, imprecating; when a good-natured auditor, going up, took the orator by the haunches, and softly inverting his position set him down on his feet. The which upon perceiving, his mind was staggered not a little. "Ha! deuce take it! cried he, rubbing his eyes, so it was not the world that was hanging by its feet, then, but I that was standing on my head!"-Censor, castigator morum, Radical Reformer, by whatever name thou art called! have a care! especially if thou art getting loud!

Fat Living-The vicarage of Wyburn, or Wintburn, in Cumberland, is of the following tempting value, viz. fifty shillings per annum, a new surplice, a pair of clogs, and feed on the common for one goose!! This favored church preferment is in a wild country, inhabited by shepherds. The service is once a fortnight. The clerk keeps a pot-house opposite the church, and when there is no congregation, the Vicar and Moses regale themselves at the bar.

Obstinacy-Hakewell, in his Apology, &c. tells us, "Notwithstanding the service was read in Latin, yet so little was that understood, that an old priest in the of Henry VIII. read Mumpsimus DoSumpsimus. And being admo

nished of it, he said he had done so for 30 years, and would not leave his old Mumpsimus for their new Sumpsimus."

LITERARY NOTICES.

A new edition is promised immediately of the little work so well known and received under the designation of "Philosophy in sport made science in earnest." This production, which is now generally known to proceed from the pen of Dr. Paris, has been pronounced to be one of the most successful attempts ever made to smooth the paths of science for the inexperienced steps of youth.

Mr. Hood announces his "Comic Annual" for 1831, and also a second edition of the volume for 1830, "the public," ac cording to his statement, "having placed him in the best of all literary positions,that of having a copyright and not a copy left."

An Essay on the Origin and Prospects of Man, by Mr. Hope, author of “ Anastasius," is shortly to appear.

The second volume of Moore's Byron is said to be nearly ready for the press.

New Works-Sir Jonah Barrington's Personal Sketches. Second Edition.Doddridge's Memoirs and Correspondence. Vol. IV.-The Literary Souvenir for 1831. Edited by Alaric A. Watts.-The New Year's Gift; or Juvenile Souvenir. Edited by Mrs. A. A. Watts.-The Winter's Wreath for 1831.-The Iris; a Religious and Literary Offering. Edited by the Rev. T. Dale, M.A.-Tales of the Dead, and other Poems. By John Heneage Jesse. The Poetical and Prose Works of Friederich Von Schiller.-The Devil's Visit, a Poem, with eight spirited Engravings on wood, from designs by Robert Cruikshank.-Le Keepsake Francais.-The Talisman, by Mrs. A. Watts.-Forget-MeNot.-Friendship's Offering.-Cameo, &c.

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Earth seems no longer the selected bride

Of Heaven, but, like a Widow, weepeth there.
Across her brow the deepening shadows glide;
The wreaths have perish'd on her pallid hair.
Yet in her bosom, beautiful though bare,
A radiant hope is sown, that soon shall rise
And ripen into joy beneath the brightening skies.

35 atheneum, VOL. 5, 3d series.

The sight in that forsaken place and hour
That touch'd me most with pity and strange woe,
With tears of solemn pleasure was a shower
Of loosen'd leaves, that flutter'd to and fro,
Quivering like little wings with motion slow,
Or wafted far upon the homeless breeze,
Above the shrubless mount, and o'er the sunless seas.

Oh! could the Mind within a leaf be curl'd,
What distant islands might mine eyes behold!
How should my spirit search the various world,
The holy haunts where Wisdom breathed of old,
The graves of human glory, dim and cold!
Or float far upward in the frostless air,
Returning home at last, to find its Eden there!

But those pale leaves that fell upon the ground,
When the wind slept, did most my thoughts engage;
They spake unto my sense with such a sound,
As breaks and trembles on the tongue of age.
Each as it dropp'd appear'd some perish'd page,
Inscribed with sad moralities, and words

That seem'd the languaged notes of meadow-haunting birds.

So fast from all the arching boughs they fell,
Leaving that sylvan sanctuary bare

To the free wind, that musing through the dell
I paced amidst them with a pitying care.
Beauties were buried in those leaves-they were
The graves of spirits, children of the Spring-
And each one seem'd to me a sacred, thoughtful thing.

Honor be theirs to whom an insect seems

A thing made holy by the life it bears?

Yet some have found in forms unconscious, themes
For thought refined; that each mute atom shares
The essence of humanity, its cares,

Its beauties and its joys-who feel regret
To tread one daisy down, or crush the violet.

Slight touches stir the heart's harmonious strings.
This feeling came upon me as I crept
By the stript hedge-a sympathy with things
Whose absent spirit with the sunshine slept-
That fell, or floated on-or as I stept
Complaining music made, as if the feet
Of Time alone should press existences so sweet.

And then, among those dry and yellow leaves,
I felt familiar feelings, known to all;
That deep emotion when the warm heart heaves
And wakens up beneath a wintry pall.

My pleasures and my passions seem'd to call
From out those wither'd leaves-and then a voice
Came with a livelier note, and taught me to rejoice.

The promises of Youth they fly and fade;
Life's vision varies with the changing year ;-
But the bright Mind receives no certain shade
From dead delights :-it rises calm and clear
Amid its ringlets grey and garlands sere.
Oh! let not Time be ever track'd by grief,
Nor Man's instinctive Hope fall like an autumn leaf!

A VISION.

THE Night-mare came to my silent bed,
In the peaceful hour of night,
When at rest was laid my heavy head,
And the ink-horn vanish'd quite.

Oh think of the horrible shape it wore!
It was not a demon grim;

Nor a dragon, with scales and tails a score ;
Nor a head without a limb;

Nor a mocking fiend, with a maddening laugh;

Nor the whirling sails of a mill;

Nor a cup of blood for the lips to quaff,
In despite of the shuddering will;

Nor a monstrous bird with a funeral note;
Nor the black dog on my breast;
Nor the ghost of Burke, with its gripe on
my throat,

That came to disturb my rest:

But my sister Poll, with a grey-goose quill,
And an Album-sight of sorrow!
"Get up," she cried, "and a whole page fill,
For this book must go back to-morrow!'

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WEEP not for him that dieth

For he sleeps, and is at rest;
And the couch whereon he lieth
Is the green earth's quiet breast:
But weep for him who pineth

On a far land's hateful shore,
Who wearily declineth

Where ye see his face no more!

Weep not for him that dieth—

For friends are round his bed, And many a young lip sigheth When they name the early dead: But weep for him that liveth

Where none will know or care, When the groan his faint heart giveth Is the last sigh of despair.

Weep not for him that dieth

For his struggling soul is free,
And the world from which it flieth
Is a world of misery:
But weep for him that weareth
The captive's galling chain;
To the agony he beareth,

Death were but little pain,

Weep not for him that dieth-
For he hath ceased from tears,
And a voice to his replieth

Which he hath not heard for years: But weep for him who weepeth

On that cold land's cruel shore. Blest, blest is he that sleepeth,Weep for the dead no more!

SONG.

SHE'S on my heart, she's in my thoughts,
At midnight, morn, and noon;
December's snow beholds her there,
And there the rose of June.

I never breathe her lovely name
When wine and mirth go round;
But oh, the gentle moonlight air
Knows well the silver sound!

I care not if a thousand hear
When other maids I praise;
I would not have my brother by,
When upon her I gaze.

The dew were from the lily gone,
The gold had lost its shine,
If any but my love herself

Could hear me call her mine!

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