ORIGINAL POETRY. THE WANDERER'S RETURN. I HAVE Come-I have come from the far off land, I have come to my home at last; Too long have I roamed on a foreign strand, Oh! sadly I come to my early home, And tread o'er my native plain, But the scenes where once I have loved to roam Can impart no joy again. For the merry joys of my childhood's hour, They have faded fast away, Like the beauty fair of a summer flower That bloometh but for a day. All heedless I roamed with my playmates then, Or wandered so gay through the silent glen, But the fire of youth, and the heart of joy, O that I were again a heedless boy, Enrapt with my youthful play! But those hours are past, and their joys have gone, Like the fleeting rainbow's form; A moment they gleamed, and in sunshine shone To fade 'neath the coming storm. I was happy then, in those hours of joy, Whilst a loving mother oft blessed her boy Ah! I left them all in my headstrong pride, And now o'er the scenes where they dwelt I glide The home I had pictured in fancy's hour, Seemed glowing and bright, with the magic power And kind were the words methought would greet Whilst a gentle voice in its accents sweet And methought I would wander o'er the hill, A stranger I come, and no friendly hand My dreamings of hope, that so fondly shed I have come! I have come!-but ah, too late VARIETIES. A. W. It is an easy matter to make radical reforms; the real task of wisdom is imperceptibly so to vary the working of an existing system, and proved by many years' experience to be sound in the main, as to suit the altered circumstances and exigencies of the time in which we live. When all is done, human life is at the best but like a fro ward child, that must be played with and humoured a little to keep it quiet till it falls asleep, and then the care is over. -Sir W. Temple. Time runs on, and when youth and beauty vanish, a fine lady who had never entertained a thought into which an admirer did not enter, finds in herself a lamentable void. INDUSTRY.-There is no art or science that is too difficult for industry to attain to; it is the gift of tongues, and makes a man understood and valued in all countries and by all nations; it is the philosopher's stone, that turns all metals, and even stones, into gold, and suffers not want to break into its dwelling; it is the north-west passage, that brings the mer-, chant's ship as soon to him as he can desire-in a word, it conquers all enemies, and makes fortune itself pay contribu tion.-Clarendon. INTEMPERANCE.-Gluttony is the source of all our infirmi ties, and the fountain of all our discases. As a lamp is choked by a superabundance of oil, a fire extinguished by excess of fuel, so is the natural heat of the body destroyed by intemper. ate diet.-Burton. CREDIT.-The most trifling actions that affect a man's credit are to be regarded. The sound of your hammer at five in the morning, or at nine at night, heard by a creditor, makes him easy six months longer; but if he sees you at a billiard-table, or hears your voice at a tavern, when you' should be at work, he sends for his money the next day.→ Franklin. EVEN TEMPER.-The great duke of Marlborough possessed a fine command of his temper, and never permitted it to be ruffled by little things, in which even the greatest men have been occasionally found unguarded. As he was one day riding with Commissary Mariot it began to rain, and he called to his servant for his cloak. The servant not bringing the cloak immediately, he called for it again. The servant, being embarrassed with the straps and buckles, did not come up to him. At last, it raining very hard, the duke called to him again, and asked him what he was about, that he did not bring his cloak. "You must stay, sir," grumbles the fellow, "if it rains cats and dogs, till I can get at it." The duke turned round to Mariot and said, very coolly, "Now I would not be of that fellow's temper for all the world."-Seward's Anecdotes of Distinguished Persons. That you may not speak ill of any, do not delight to hear ill of them. Give no countenance to busy bodies, and those that love to talk of another man's faults; or if you cannot de cently reprove them on account of their quality, then direct the discourse some other way; or if you cannot do that, by seeming not to mind it, you may sufficiently signify that you do not like it.-Tillotson. It is a celebrated thought of Socrates, that if all the misfortunes of mankind were cast into a public stock, in order to be equally distributed among the whole species, those who now think themselves the most unhappy would prefer the share they are already possessed of, before that which would fall to them by such division. Horace has carried this thought a great deal further in the beginning of his satire which implies that the hardships or misfortunes we lie under are more easy to us than those of any other person would be, in case we should change conditions with him. ILLUSTRATIONS OF HUMANITY. The very 66 clothes, her husband, whose patience as well as purse had by this time become pretty well exhausted, ventured to remonstrate with her in the following terms: My dear, it is really quite unnecessary to purchase any baby articles: we don't require them." No, love, but we may require them," was the affectionate reply; and accordingly a very extensive purchase was made. 66 Most ladies, as their husbands find to their cost, are very fond of shopping. Even when they have not the means to make large purchases, they seem to derive a special pleasure from witnessing the fineries exhibited for sale. Hence, many of them often loiter away the better part of a day in those shops in which there is the greatest variety of articles, without purchasing to an extent exceeding a few shillings. In some cases, indeed, they spend many hours in drapers' shops without making a single purchase, or without intending to make one when they enter. A short time ago, a Mr. Thomson, who is celebrated for the variety and quality of his goods, overheard the following dialogue between two young ladies when walking along Oxford street. "Matilda, dear, where shall we go next to while away the time?" "I am sure I don't know, love-wherever you please." "I'm sick of the Pantheon." "And so am I dear, of all the horrid bazaars !" "Oh, let us go," exclaimed the other, emphatically, just as if she had made a most important discovery, "Oh let us go and turn over Mr. Thomson's things!" No. XXXIV.-THE LADY SHOPPING. GOING a shopping!' words grate on many an unfortunate husband's ears. The bare proposal of a wife to go a shopping, conjures up in the mind of her lord and master, (who, by the way, is any thing but her master in matters of this kind,) ideas of the most unpleasant nature. He looks upon it in precisely the same point of view, as if some light-fingered gentleman were to thrust his hand into his pockets, and carry off in triumph all he could find. He would often, indeed, feel but too happy, were this the full extent of the evil. If he accompany his wife on her shopping excursions, he will soon make the disagreeable discovery, that she will not proportion the extent of her purchases to the amount of money which it may be convenient for him at the time to spare. She will complete the number of articles she had catalogued in her mind, and very probably in the shop at the moment, make an alarming supplement to it. The "assistant draper" is the very pink of politeness. He knows her weak side, and lavishes his attentions on her. One article after another is unrolled, and its merits amply and eloquently expatiated on. There are no limits to his praise of his goods. The quality of every thing is not only superlative, but surpasses perfection itself. And then as to the price,-why, it is no price at all. It is very considerably under that at which the article can be procured at any other establishment. In fact, the assistant draper is literally giving away his master's goods. He has a remarkably quick eye for the partialities of his customers. That piece of silk, which our artist has represented the lady as in the act of inspecting, he is lauding to the skies, ay, even up to the fixed stars themselves. It is the best piece of goods on the premises; and he can scarcely support himself under the herculean burI HAVE Seen Robert Burns laid in his grave, and I have den of his admiration of her taste, in giving a prefer-seen George Gordon Byron borne to his; of both I wish ence to it. She who could resist the flattery thus so to speak, and my words shall be spoken with honesty and artfully, and in such large doses administered to her, freedom. They were great though unequal heirs of fame. must have less than the average share of woman's Their fortunes and their birth were widely dissimilar; yet vanity. The assistant draper, by his pretty plausi- in their passions and in their genius they approached to a closer resemblance. Their careers were short and bilities, not only persuades his lady customer to pur- glorious, and they both perished in the summer of life, chase more articles than she requires, but she so far and in all the splendour of a reputation more likely to extends his patronage to him, as to purchase articles increase than diminish. One was a peasant, and the which in all probability she will never need. Matthews, other was a peer; but nature is a great leveller, and the comedian, used to relate an amusing instance of makes amends for the injuries of fortune, by the richthis. A lady who had been married several years him to a level with the nobles of the land: by nature, ness of her benefactions: the genius of Burns raised without having any children, and who had no pros- if not by birth, he was the peer of Byron. I knew one, pect of ever being encumbered with "innocent pledges" of connubial bliss, having one day gone a shopping with her husband, first admired and then purchased every thing shown her by the cunning rogue whose duty it was to dispose of his master's goods. Last of all, she was shown some baby clothes, with which after the usual encomiums had been pronounced upon them by the shopman, she fell into the same raptures, as with every thing else. But while in the act of making an extensive purchase of the admired baby "Delightful!" responded the other. Mr. Thomson turned round, and making them a bow which would have done no discredit to Chesterfield, said, “I thank you, ladies, I'm exceedingly obliged to you." ROBERT BURNS AND LORD BYRON. I am and I have seen both. I have hearkened to words from their lips, and admired the labours of their pens, and I now, and likely to remain, under the influence of their magic songs. They rose by the force of their genius, and they fell by the strength of their passions; one wrote from a love, and the other from a scorn of mankind; and they both of the emotions of their own hearts with and none surely have surpassed. But it is less my wish a vehemence and an originality which few have equalled, to draw the characters of those extraordinary men, than to write what I remember of them; and I will say sang nothing that I know not to be true, and little but what I saw myself. The first time I ever saw Burns was in Nithsdale. I was then a child, but his looks and his voice cannot well be forgotten; and while I write this, I behold him as distinctly as I did when I stood at my father's knee, and heard the bard repeat his Tam O'Shanter. He was tall, and of a manly make, his brow broad and high, and his voice varied with the character of his inimitable tale; yet through all its variations it was melody itself. He was of great personal strength, and proud too of displaying it; and I have seen him lift a load with ease, which few ordinary men would have willingly undertaken. The first time I ever saw Byron was in the House of Lords, soon after the publication of Childe Harold. He stood up in his place on the opposition side, and made a speech on the subject of Catholic freedom. His voice was low, and I heard him but by fits, and when I say he was witty and sarcastic, I judge as much from the involuntary mirth of the benches as from what I heard with my own ears. His voice had not the full and manly melody of the voice of Burns; nor had he equal vigour of frame, nor the same open expanse of forehead. But his face was finely formed, and was impressed with a more delicate vigour than that of the peasant poet. He had a singular conformation of ear; the lower lobe, instead of being pendulous, grew down and united itself to the cheek, and resembled no other ear I ever saw, save that of the duke of Wellington. His bust by Thorvaldson is feeble and mean; the painting of Philips is more noble, and much more like. Of Burns I have never seen aught but a very uninspired resemblance, and I regret it the more, because he had a look worthy of the happiest effort of art-a look beaming with poetry and eloquence. | His good humour was unruffled, and his wit never forsook him. He looked to one of his fellow-volunteers with a smile, as he stood by the bed-side with his eyes wet, and said, “ John, don't let the awkward squad fire over me." He was aware that death was dealing with him; he asked a lady who visited him, more in sincerity than in mirth, what commands she had for the other world. He repressed with a smile the hopes of his friends, and told them he had lived long enough. As his life drew near a close, the eager yet decorous solicitude of his fellow-townsmen increased. He was an exciseman it is true-a name odious, from many associations, to his countrymen-but he did his duty meekly and kindly, and repressed rather than encouraged the desire of some of his companions to push the law with severity; he was therefore much beloved, and the passion of the Scotch for poetry, made them regard him as little lower than a spirit inspired. It is the practice of the young men of Dumfries to meet in the streets during the hours of remission from labour, and by these means I had an opportunity of witnessing the general solicitude of all ranks and of all ages. His differences with them in some important points of human speculation and religious hope, were forgotten and forgiven; they thought only of his genius-of the delight his compo sitions had diffused; and they talked of him with the same awe as of some departing spirit, whose voice was to gladden them no more. His last moments have never been described; he had laid his head quietly on the pillow awaiting dissolution, when his attendant reminded him of his medicine, and held the cup to his lip. He started suddenly up, drained the cup at a gulp, threw his hands before him like a man about to swim, and sprung from head to foot of the bed-fell with his face down, and expired with a groan. The last time I saw Burns in life was on his return from the Brow-well of Solway; he had been ailing all spring, and summer had come without bringing health with it. He had gone away very ill, and he returned worse. He was brought back I think, in a covered spring cart, and when he alighted at the foot of the street in which he lived, he could scarce stand upright. He reached his own door with difficulty. He stooped much, and there was a visible change in his looks. Some may think it not unimportant to know, that he was at that time dressed in a blue coat, with the undress nankeen pantaloons of the volunteers, and that his neck, which was in-nary bitterness of spirit; and his domestic infelicity had clining to be short, caused his hat to turn up behind, in the manner of the shovel hats of the Episcopal clergy. Truth obliges me to add, that he was not fastidious about his dress; and that an officer, curious in the personal appearance and equipments of his company, might have questioned the military nicety of the poet's clothes and arms. But his colonel was a maker of rhyme, and the poet had to display more charity for his commander's verse than the other had to exercise when he inspected the clothing and arms of the careless bard. From the day of his return home, till the hour of his untimely death, Dumfries was like a besieged place. It was known he was dying, and the anxiety, not of the rich and the learned only, but of the mechanics and peasants, exceeded all belief. Wherever two or three people stood together, their talk was of Burns, and of him alone. They spoke of his history-of his person-of his works-of his family-of his fame-and of his untimely and approaching fate, with a warmth and an enthusiasm which will ever endear Dumfries to my remembrance. All that he said or was saying-the opinions of the physicians, (and Maxwell was a kind and a skilful one,) were eagerly caught up and reported from street to street, and from house to house. Of the dying moments of Byron, we have no minute nor very distinct account. He perished in a foreign land, among barbarians or aliens, and he seems to have been without the aid of a determined physician, whose firmness or persuasion might have vanquished his obstinacy. His aversion to bleeding was an infirmity which he shared with many better regulated minds; for it is no uncommon belief that the first touch of the lancet will charm away the approach of death, and those who believe this are willing to reserve so decisive a spell for a more momentous occasion. He had parted with his native land in no ordirendered his future peace of mind hopeless. This was aggravated from time to time by the tales or the intrusion of travellers, by reports injurious to his character, and by the eager and vulgar avidity with which idle stories were circulated, which exhibited him in weakness or in folly. But there is every reason to believe, that long before his untimely death, his native land was as bright as ever in his fancy, and that his anger, conceived against the many for the sins of the few, had subsided, or was subsiding. Of Scotland, and of his Scotish origin, he has boasted in more than one place of his poetry; he is proud to remember the land of his mother, and to sing that he is half a Scot by birth, and a whole one in his heart. Of his great rival in popularity, Sir Walter Scott, he speaks with kindness; and the compliment he has paid him has been earned by the unchangeable admiration of the other. Scott has ever spoken of Byron as he has lately written, and all those who know him will feel that this consistency is characteristic. The news of Byron's death came upon London like an earthquake; and though the common multitude are ignorant of literature, and destitute of feeling for the higher flights of poetry, yet they consented to feel by faith, and believed, because the newspapers believed, that one of the brightest lights in the fir mament of poesy was extinguished for ever. With literary men, a sense of the public misfortune was mingled, perhaps, with a sense that a giant was removed from their way; and that they had room now to break a lance with an equal, without the fear of being overthrown by fiery impetuosity and colossal strength. But among those who feared him, or envied him, or loved him, there are none who sorrow not for the national loss, and grieve not that Byron fell so soon, and on a foreign shore. When Burns died, I was then young, but I was not insensible that a mind of no common strength had passed from among us. He had caught my fancy, and touched my heart with his songs and his poems. I went to see him laid out for the grave; several eldren people were with me. He lay in a plain unadorned coffin, with a linen sheet drawn over his face, and on the bed, and around the body, herbs and flowers were thickly strewn, according to the usage of the country. He was wasted somewhat by long illness; but death had not increased the swarthy hue of his face, which was uncommonly dark and deeply marked-the dying pang was visible in the lower part, but his broad and open brow was pale and serene, and around it his sable hair lay in masses, slightly touched with grey, and inclining more to a wave than a curl. The room where he lay was plain and neat, and the simplicity of the poet's humble dwelling pressed the presence of death more closely on the heart, than if his bier had been embellished by vanity and covered with the blazonry of high ancestry and rank. We stood and gazed on him in silence for the space of several minutes-we went, and others succeeded us-there was no justling and crushing, though the crowd was great-man followed man as patiently and orderly as if all had been a matter of mutual understanding-not a question was asked-not a whisper was heard. This was several days after his death. It is the custom of Scotland to "wake" the body -not with wild howlings and wilder songs, and much waste of strong drink, like our mercurial neighbours-but in silence or in prayer; superstition says it is unsonsie to leave a corpse alone-and it is never left. I know not who watched by the body of Burns-much it was my wish to share in the honour; but my extreme youth would have made such a request seem foolish, and its rejection would have been sure. I am to speak the feelings of another people, and of the customs of a higher rank, when I speak of laying out the body of Byron for the grave. It was announced from time to time that he was to be exhibited in state, and the progress of the embellishments of the poet's bier was recorded in the pages of an hundred publications. They were at length completed, and to separate the curiosity of the poor from the admiration of the rich, the latter were indulged with tickets of admission, and a day was set apart for them to go and wonder over the decked room and emblazoned bier. Peers and peeresses, priests, poets, and politicians, came in gilded chariots and in hired hacks, to gaze upon the splendour of the funeral preparations, and to see in how rich and how vain a shroud the body of the immortal had been hid. Those idle trappings, in which rank seeks to mark its altitude above the vulgar, belonged to the state of the peer rather than to the state of the poet; genius required no such attractions; and all this magnificence served only to divide our regard with the man whose inspired tongue was now silenced for ever. Who cared for lord Byron the peer, and the privy counsellor, with his coronet, and his long descent from princes on one side, and from heroes on both; and who did not care for George Gordon Byron the poet, who has charmed us, and will charm our descendants with his deep and impassioned verse! The homage was rendered to genius, not surely to rank-for 'lord' can be stamped on any clay, but inspiration can only be impressed on the finest metal. Of the day on which the multitude were admitted, I know not in what terms to speak. I never surely saw so strange a mixture of silent sorrow and of fierce and intractable curiosity. If one looked on the poet's splendid coffin with deep awe, and thought of the gifted spirit which had lately animated the cold remains, others regarded the whole as a pageant or a show, got up for the amusement of the idle and the careless, and criticised the arrangements in the spirit of those who wish to be rewarded for their time, and who consider that all they condescend to visit should be according to their own taste. There was a crushing, a trampling, and an impatience, as rude and as fierce as ever I witnessed at a theatre; and words of incivility were bandied about, and questions asked with such determination to be answered, that the very mutes, whose business was silence and repose, were obliged to interfere with tongue and hand between the visitors and the dust of the poet. In contemplation of such a scene, some of the trappings which were there on the first day were removed on the second, and this suspicion of the good sense and decorum of the mul titude called forth many expressions of displeasure, as remarkable for their warmth as their impropriety of language. By five o'clock the people were all ejectedman and woman-and the rich coffin bore tokens of the touch of hundreds of eager fingers-many of which had not been overclean. The multitude who accompanied Burns to the grave went step by step with the chief mourners; they might amount to ten or twelve thousand. Not a word was heard; and though all could not be near, and many could not see, when the earth closed on their darling poet for ever, there was no rude impatience shown, no fierce disappointment expressed. It was an impressive and mournful sight to see men of all ranks and persuasions and opinions mingling as brothers, and stepping side by side down the streets of Dumfries, with the remains of him who had sung of their loves and joys and domestic endearments, with a truth and a tenderness which none perhaps have since equalled. I could, indeed, have wished the military part of the procession away-for he was buried with military honours-because I am one of those who love simplicity in all that regards genius. The scarlet and gold-the banners displayed-the measured step, and the military array-with the sound of martial instruments of music, had no share in increasing the solemnity of the burial scene; and had no connexion with the poet. I looked on it then, and I consider it now, as an idle ostentation, a piece of superfluous state which might have been spared, more especially as his neglected and traduced and insulted spirit had experienced no kindness in the body from those lofty people who are now proud of being numbered as his coevals and countrymen. His fate has been a reproach to Scotland; but the reproach comes with an ill grace from England. When we can forget Butler's fate-Otway's loaf-Dryden's old age-and Chatterton's poison-cup, we may think that we stand alone in the iniquity of neglecting pre-eminent genius. I found myself at the brink of the poet's grave, into which he was about to descend for ever. There was a pause among the mourners, as if loth to part with his remains; and when he was at last lowered, and the first shovel-full of earth sounded on his coffin lid, I looked up and saw tears on many cheeks where tears were not usual. The volunteers justified the fears of their comrade, by three ragged and straggling volleys. The earth was heaped up, the green sod laid over him, and the multitude stood gazing on the |