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I'll maybe thae sweet scenes o' youth see nae mair,

But aye till the cauld han' o' death shuts my e'e,

Where'er I may wander, where'er I may dwell,

Dear, dear shall their memory be ever

to me.

An' oh! the lang gaze o' my fond mother's e'e,

Sae tenderly bent on her wandering boy;

My father's voice struggling wi' kindness an' grief,

An' his bosom's deep heave wi' the sad parting sigh;—

An' each glad joyous face, that made hame doubly dear,

Sae dowie an' tearfu' to see me depart ; Oh! that gaze, an' that sigh, an' each dear waefu' face,

Till it ceases to beat shall aye dwell in my heart.

Now, you must not be severe in your criticisms upon my poor verses; I cannot help it that they are not better, for they are the best I could produce, and they are true representations, both of the natural scenery of my dear home, and the warm feelings of my heart.

A few days after the change of the wind, and the agreeable alteration of weather which followed, 1 got the offer of a situation some miles be

66

yond C; and as it was considerably better in every respect than that at H- it appeared to me the most prudent course to accept it. Accordingly I again packed up my little trunk, keeping out a small bundle for immediate use, till it should come to me; seized my gude aik stick" and my umbrella, and prepared for my departure. Though I had been little more than a fortnight at H—, yet I felt something like grief or regret at leaving it; particularly when my only companion shook hands with me affectionately, and kindly wished me all manner of success and happiness. I assure you I felt considerably at parting with him, and setting out on a new journey, alone as before, to mingle again amongst utter strangers,-Englishmen, too, a nation for which, from my boyhood, I have felt no small dislike: and now to be really going into England, and with the prospect of making my residence there for some time! it

seemed to me as if I were labouring under some strange delusion, which I had not the power to dispel. Often, in my early youth, while I read the history of "Wallace wight," have I cried with grief and bitter hatred at the "Southrons," and wished for power to avenge his murder upon them, often longed for a day when the savage butcheries and wanton devastations committed after the battle of Culloden would be requited :—and now to feel myself actually going to England, to live a mongst Englishmen! I thought upon it again and again, and wondered how I would behave when there.

There was besides another circumstance which tended to wake feelings of a peculiar kind in this journey: for above twenty miles I was exactly retracing the road which I had lately come; so that I knew myself approaching nearer home every step, yet knew that my journey would not lead me there. I cannot describe to you how strange it seemed, to be travelling the very road which led homewards, yet with the unavoidable conviction in my mind that I would not reach it: I felt as one feels in a dream, when something is just within his reach could he make the slightest exertion; but he sees the object of his ardent wishes glide gradually away from his grasp, with the consciousness that a slight effort on his part would be sufficient to obtain it, yet feels an utter inability of making even that slight effort. Thus I drew gradually nearer and nearer home, yet knew, at the same time, that I was drawing nearer the place where I must leave the road which leads home, unless, indeed, I should continue it, as I could do, longed to do, yet would not do.

A little before I reached that dreaded place of separation, I saw a young man sitting by the roadside a little before me, as if resting himself. He rose as I came forward, and accosted me very civilly with a "Here's a fine day." I answered, that it was indeed a very good day for travelling; he immediately asked me if I could direct him the way to L-? I told him that I was acquainted with it, but was intending to go there myself that night, and that if he was going there, we might accompany

each other. To this he very willingly agreed, so on we went together. He was in person about my own height, but considerably stouter, and apparently three or four years older, and, from the paleness of his countenance, seemed to have been less exposed to the action of the sun and the weather. When we reached the village, and, after making inquiries, left the Droad, and took that leading to L, I proposed having something to eat and drink, as I had not taken any refreshment since morning, and had since then walked upwards of twenty miles; he told me plainly that he could not afford it, as he had but one sixpence left, and that he did not dare to break upon it till he knew where he would get a bed, and what it would cost him. I offered the poor fellow a share of a bottle of porter, and some bread and cheese, which he accepted very thankfully. After eating and drinking a little, he became quite lively and happy, and sung me two or three songs while we rested ourselves. One of them was of a Jacobite character, and apparently not very old; it was so concordant with my feelings in some respects, that I was desirous to possess it, got him to repeat it over slowly, while I wrote it down with my pencil, and here I send you a copy of it.

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Nac crown to grace her joyless brow,
Her freedom lost, her glory fled.
The howlet screams in the empty ha's,
An' flaps his wing owre the chair o'
her kings;

In courts that rang wi' the warrior's tread, The long grass waves, an' the nettle springs.

Sair, sair, abune the bluidy graves,
Wi' heavy heart she makes her mane,
Where lie her best an' bravest sons,
Wha bled for her rights, but bled in
vain.

An' aye when she lifts her wae-bent head
Out owre the wide an' the weltering

sea,

She takes a lang an' a wistful gaze,

But the sails o' her Charlie nae mair glad her e'e.

picked up a little flinty pebble from the Scottish side,-drew my breath long and deep, and,quivering through every limb, withdrew my feet from the soil of my dear native land, which it had never before quitted, and to which I felt as if firmly rooted. As we were then too deeply wrapped in thought for engaging in conversation, little more passed between my comrade and me till we came in view of Netherby-hall, when our attention was immediately drawn to it, no less by the recollections it awakened, as the scene of the song of "Young Lochinvar," than by its uncommonly beautiful situation. Without the least recollection that the whole is only a fiction of the poet's fancy, we

But the day may come when the light o' endeavoured with great care to ascer

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we cross

When we found ourselves well refreshed, we set out on our journey again, my lively companion much improved in spirits, and keeping me from indulging in gloomy reveries. Some miles below Led the E by a very fine romantic bridge, or rather two bridges, one upon the other, occasioned by the exceeding depth of the craggy banks between which the river is confined, and boils, and wheels, and foams, and thunders through with great beauty and grandeur. My companion beguiled the way with many a song and many a merry tale, till at length we came where the road is crossed by a small stream, not so large as the stream of your little spring-well, but which is said to be the boundary between Scotland and England. On approaching it, all our mirth instantly vanished;-we looked at the small stream-into England-back into Scotland-around on its hills, and glens, and green fields, and waving hazels and brushwood, then on each other, but spoke not a word. I placed a foot on each side of the stream,pulled a small tuft of grass, and

-

tain where the young hero had crossed the river; and we saw him, in the heat of our awakened imaginations, dash into the E-, burst through its wooded banks, and sweep across "Cannabie lee" like a falcon, bearing off his prey in triumph. Tales and ballads of a similar tendency kept the E, and entered Lus in conversation till we recrossed -just

as

"gloamin'" displayed its finest shade, neither light nor dark, but that dusky greyness so favourable to calm and solemn contemplation. I had, however, another thing to engage my attention,-quarters for the night were to be sought, which I procured after a good deal of trouble, occasioned by a fair in the town, which had filled nearly all the houses of public entertainment. I then parted with my fellow-traveller, after an agreement to meet next morning, and continue our journey together. In the house where I stopped I met with a doctor and a painter, two very singular characters in various points of view, but both distinguishcd for cordial good fellowship over the "barley-bree," and warm-hearted genuine kindness. If it were in my power to relate to you their conversation, and describe the peculiarities of their behaviour, it would make ample amends for the wearisome dullness of this letter. I have never seen a pair of such frank, kind, eccentric men. The doctor, in particular, is a delightful oddity; but all that I could say about him must be reserved till I have the pleasure

of a real conversation with you; for, were I to tell you all in my letters, I would have nothing new and strange to talk about when we meet, as I hope we yet may, though I cannot guess when.

After a very comfortable night's rest I continued my journey, but without meeting my companion of the preceding day: on I went, how ever, alone, and something "dowie;" often looking back upon the retiring hills of my dear native land, becoming fainter and fainter, and forward upon the lofty Cambrian mountains, becoming gradually more and more distinct. The morning was beautiful, calm, and mildly sunny; the wind just strong enough to be heard whispering and breathing through the young green unfolding buds of the earlier trees; the lark sung loud, clear, and melodious, high among the purple-streaked clouds; and the jolly Cambrian "hynd" was raising his rude strain in a ruder voice as he followed his plough. The day passed on, the sun reached the middle of the sky, and shone warm and strong, when I came at last in view of C, and stopped on a height to take a survey of it at leisure; but my powers of description are completely inadequate to give you any thing like an idea of its appearance. From the place where I stood, the first object that attracted my attention was the majestic and beautiful flow of the E-, winding past the city with a gentle bend, spanned by a newly-built and stately bridge. The banks of the river on the north side are adorned with a number of elegant mansions; the south bank, in one part, bristles with a variety of houses, lanes, and streets, of all dimensions, but all disorderly, dirty, and apparently inconvenient; in another, the grey battlements of the castle, and the narrow windows of the prison, frown "grim and horrible ;" over all floated a dark mass of smoky vapour, penetrated in a few places by the spires of a church or a cathedral. In the distance appeared the mighty forms of Skiddaw and Saddleback, huge and high. Turning round, behind me, I beheld the hills of Rshire, and the neighbouring part of D——shire, mellowed and

VOL. XV.

obscured by the distance; yet Burnswark was distinctly visible, lifting his singular, and, as it were, artformed brow above the rest, and farther west my own Criffel, which raising its giant size above the Solway, met my view, and awoke the fondest feelings of my heart. I gazed upon it till my eyes grew dim, my bosom heaved deeply, and my head swam with a sickening and confused pain; then drawing a long farewell sigh, I broke off my reverie, and bent my steps toward the town. I was not then in a capacity to make any impartial remarks, therefore you must not look for any at this time. My heart panted, my whole frame shuddered, and the blood burned o'er my cheek and brow, when I entered the Scotch-gate, where formerly the heads of my gallant, though misled countrymen, blackened in the sun and storm. I did not make any stop in the town,-I could not,-it was not a place for me; but as I was struggling through the crowd in the market-place, my ear was assailed by the well-known sound of a bagpipe. I instantly drew near, and saw and heard an old man in tartan dress, with a true weather-beaten Highland face, playing "Lochaber no more." I stood as if petrified; a thousand burning recollections flashed across my brain, rousing me to frenzy; then the long wailing fall smote upon my heart, till my blood chilled with the agony of woe. The eyes of the old man cast a supplicating glance around the crowd; the unfeeling brutes heeded it not; his strain quivered, sunk, and changed; I threw something into his hat, held by a little boy, grasped my stick firmly in hand, and rushed through the crowd like a maniac, scarcely able to restrain my maddened feelings from venting themselves in furious words and frantic actions.

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TOWN AND COUNTRY CLERGYMEN.

He was a foot through choice, not want of wit:
the very top

And dignity of Folly we attain
By studious search, and labour of the brain.-Wilmot.

THERE are few who have reached their grand climacteric without having renounced many of their early opinions, and viewed men and things in a very different light from that in which they appeared to the juvenile mind; and there are perhaps still fewer, at that stage of life, who, were it in their power to retrace their steps, would pursue exactly the same track on the journey. But that knowledge which we derive from experience comes generally too late to be applied to any efficient purpose; our choice of a profession, or a business, has been made, and it is too late to change; and our habits have been so long formed, that, in the quaint style of the proverb, they have become second nature. Although it must be confessed that too many adopt. no plan, but pass recklessly forward, or rather allow themselves to be impelled by their passions, which are often excited by trivial circumstances; yet it must also be admitted, that specious theories for the regu lation of our conduct, however plausible they may appear, and however obstinately they may be maintained, often fail in producing the expected result. The effeminate slave of Pleasure, and the mad votary of Ambition, often find the paths which they tread lead to objects very different from those which were anticipated. Mark Antony, in the arms of Cleopatra, thought not of suicide, after being betrayed and deserted by those in whom he had confided. Did Charles V., when dictating to the Sovereigns of Europe, calculate upon closing life by counting his beads in a cloister? Buonaparte, when leading five hundred thousand warriors into Russia, never imagined that he was pursuing the direct road to an insulated rock in the Indian Ocean, where he was to be doomed to writhe under the petty insults and caprice of a satellite of power, who, a short while before, would have reckoned

it a high honour to have been permitted to appear in his presence.

Still more uncertain are our schemes for promoting the happiness of our posterity; the father starves himself, that his son may die of a surfeit ;the mother destroys her daughter's health by empirical cosmetics, to improve her beauty ;-Mary Queen of Scots was left heiress to a crown which conducted her to the scaffold;

the Earl of Chesterfield wrote four large volumes for the instruction of his son, whom the fond father expected to see the most accomplished gentleman of his age, and the disappointed parent had the mortification to find him turn out a fool. So true is the couplet of BurnsThe best-laid schemes of mice and men Gang aft a-gley.

These reflections occurred to me, when glancing over the obituary of an old Magazine, in which the death of my friend, the Reverend Andrew Baxter, was recorded. Of this man I think myself warranted in saying, that whatever might be his foibles, they were the errors of the head, rather than of the heart. Andrew had, from his earliest years, a most insatiable thirst for learning; he was an excellent classic at twelve, and went to College in his fifteenth year, where he pursued his studies with unremitted assiduity, and almost unrivalled success. Early in the first session he formed an acquaintance with Francis Halliday, a student, also in his noviciate. As both were intended for the church, there was much similarity in their studies: Francis was at least two years older than Andrew, and of course had reflected more upon his future progress in life. Both, like race-horses nearly matched, pressed hard on each other in their progressive studies; but they were generous rivals, influenced by no passion less dignified than a laudable emulation.

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