lief. There is too much gross and hardened vice, on our list must for the present be deferred, lest too much misery, and almost too much of suffer our lighter matter encroach too far on the wits, ing inflicted on the victim of a loving nature, and poets, politicians, and Utilitarian philosophers, who a weak understanding, great as her folly had been. elbow each other for places in the popular and We perceive, with regret, that the other novels well-crammed pages of Tait, GERMAN TRANSLATIONS OF POPULAR SCOTTISH SONGS. THE SKYLARK. BY JAMES HOGG. Bird of the wilderness, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place O, to abide in the desert with thee ! Wild is thy lay, and loud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Musical cherub, soar, singing away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Blest is thy dwelling-place O, to abide in the desert with thee! DIE FELDLERCHE. BY M. L. J. Vogel der Wüsterei, Süss um den Plan tönt dein Morgenlied mir, Selig dein Wohnort ist Möcht' Ich auf Oeden nur wohnen mit dir! Durch Liebe begeistert, aus Liebe es sprang. Wo, wohin willst du ziehn? Auf Erden die Liebe, himmelan der Gesang. Ueber Berg, über Bach hin, Ueber des Morgens roth-strömenden Strahl, Melodischer Cherub, flieg, weg, überall ! Unter dem Heideflor, Suss sey dein Gruss und dein Liebesbett mir! Sinnbild von Freude bist, Selig dein Wohnort ist Möcht' Ich auf Oeden nur wohnen mit dir! THE EXILE OF ERIN. * BY THE LAST COUNT OF PURGSTALL." Es wandelt' ein Fremdling am einsamen Ufer, Grausames Schicksal, erseufzte der Fremdling, Doch ich erwache im Lande der Fremde, *We committed an error last month in attributing the Translation of Pibroch of Donald Dhu to that Count of Purgstall, who lived for a considerable time in Edinburgh, and married Miss Cranstoun, the sister of Mrs. Dugald Stewart, and the early friend and life-long correspondent of Sir Walter Scott. The last Count of Purgstall was the translator; who, though, he died in boyhood, after giving promise of remarkable talent, as he survived his father, bore the title. He must, however, from his birth, and the peculiar character and attainments and tastes of his celebrated mother, have been more Scottish, or more poetically connected with our country, than his father could have been. Those of our readers who are familiar with Captain Basil Hall's Schloss Hainfeld, will remember the touching history of the highly-gifted boy, and the bereaved mother whom sorrow for his premature loss bowed down with grief to the end of her days. BON GAULTIER AND HIS FRIENDS. "A moy n'est que honneur et gloire d'estre dict et reputé BON GAULTIER et bon compaignon: en ce nom, suis bien venų en toutes bonnes compaignies de Pantagruelistes."-RABELAIS, Prologue de premier livre. ties. BON GAULTIER. SCENE.-The Interior of the Martello Tower, Leith-A| comelier without injuring his national peculiarilarge circular Apartment lighted by a chandelier from the centre-Bookshelves and Presses round the wallsA large fire is blazing, near which are two sofas and a table, and a camp bed is dimly visible opposite-In the middle of the floor is a square opening, with a lifted trap-touch him. door, at which the shafts of a ladder are visible. TIME -Near Midnight. Comelier? It would be painting the lily, to He's a whole garrison in himself. That red head of his is as good as a blunderbuss. I never knew the messenger's concurrent yet, that could look him steadily in the face. But how like you the interior? M'Pherson! Bring up some of Cockburn and Campbell's yellow seal, the spirit-case, and the kettle! You have no idea how cool the cellars are. O'MALLEY. Hav'n't I? I'll trouble you for a light. I had as fine a specimen of coolness to-day as you'll find to Cotton's?-I left Glasgow this morning, and out the south of Kamschatka.-Are these cigars of a strange perversity determined to travel by the sole remanent coach, instead of the railway. The consequence was, that we stuck in the snow, near one of your country cathedrals,-I think they call it Shotts; and I had to wade three mortal miles with the fifteen-stone widow of a Greenock grocer upon my back. BON GAULTIER. BON GAULTIER. Not a word. Most probably he was some West country lad, who was canonized for the invention of calico. There are a good many of these gentry in the west. St. Mirren has charge of the destinies of Paisley, and Ayr confides in the mediation of a certain St. Quivox. I wish somebody would write a sort of supplementary Semita, and act as the biographer of the lesser luminaries who have been jostled from the Scottish calendar. O'MALLEY. Then, brithers, join your sangs wi' mine Thank Heaven! you've reached the end of it. BON GAULTIER. Reams. It seems, in fact, to be becoming the standard literature of Scotland. The language of "Saint Mirren, and strike home!" What a mag- Burns has been withdrawn, as antiquated and vulnificent war-cry! BON GAULTIER. Or "Saint Rollox for the Gorbals!" I shall certainly introduce them in my next novel. By the way, I had forgot that I have some verses on the subject of this very Saint, from a bard of the Whistlebinkie school,-execrable enough, I allow, but not worse than the average of the Molendinar ditties. Suppose I sing them? gar; and the jargon of Camlachie is substituted in its place. Have you seen Whistlebinkie? O'MALLEY. Not I. What the mischief is it?-a person or a place? BON GAULTIER. Neither. It is the nom de guerre of the Paisley Parnassus, or rather the mash-tub in which our occidental rhymsters are pleased to manufacture their small beer. There is humour, however, With all my heart. Only wait till I mix my- about the knaves, which is a great redeeming quaself another glass. Now, push along! O'MALLEY. BON GAULTIER sings THE SONG OF ST. ROLLOX. But what were they, the brithers twae, Then, brithers, join your sangs wi' mine; Sae lang's we've gude St. Rollox! Nae foreign saunts will do for hiz; O' them we've had jam satis; Sae lang's we've gude St. Rollox! The Green has seen his bairus' pranks; To think by Molendinar's banks Then, brithers, join your sangs wi' mine; Sae lang 's we've gude St. Rollox! And was the first that bauldly durst He search'd the land, and fund blackband, And frae his ain lang chumley tap lity; and sometimes there is a glimpse of genius; I don't know much about Scotch poetry; but it sounds both strong and plaintive. BON GAULTIER. So it always will, when the proper string is touched. There are some men, such as Ballantyne, Thom, Park, or Latto, who can still' write well and purely; and poor Allan Cunningham was the best and the purest of them all. But the worse taste is prevalent. O'MALLEY. What is Wilson the vocalist doing? Declining sadly in his matter. After the glorious Jacobite ditties, which hurried one back in soul to the stormy era of Culloden, he was pleased to favour the public with a "Nicht wi' Burns." Some people liked it, I daresay-but to me it recalled the memory of the gauger more forcibly than the recollection of the poet. He is now, I hear, about to exhilarate our pensive public with "A Haver wi' Jamie Hogg." THANE (rushing wildly up the ladder.) Ta sealgh! ta sealgh! She'll no bide nae langer in ta water hoos, wi' ta kelpies an' ta speaking sealghs! Safe us! here's ta muckle brute(Snatches a blunderbuss from the wall.) YOUNG SCOTLAND, (bounds up the ladder in a closefitting sealskin dress.) Drop the gun, you Highland heathen, or I'll brain you on the spot like a Covenanter! Don't you know me ? THANE. Oigh! and sure enough it's Maister Charles, at his auld pliskies. Wha wad hae thought to see ye here at this deed hour o' nicht; and, Lord safe us! like a sealgh? YOUNG SCOTLAND. YOUNG SCOTLAND. Love. There is a charming creature at the light-house-an enchanting Hero that tends that Pharos of the Forth. Her image has been perpetually before me for the last three months: so, this evening, when I saw the distant spark begin to twinkle on the island, and thought that it was kindled by the fair fingers of Jean M'Closkie, I felt that I could no longer, with honour, refuse to obey the signal; and, accordingly, I committed myself to the waves. O'MALLEY. But why did you not take a boat, Sir? Did Leander call a pair of oars to cross the Hellespont? His secret would have been profaned in the custody of the jolly young watermen who plied at the stairs of Abydos; and, in like manner, I eschewed the accommodation of a boat redolent of herring-brine, and the society of a couple of gentlemen more addicted to the use of whisky and pig-tail, than to a diligent exercise of their Vanish, thou son of Cuthullin, and return with razors. I may mention, however, that I looked a tumbler. Well, Bon, how are you? O'MALLEY, (Aside.) Bon, who is this extraordinary Triton? BON GAULTIER. A perfect Proteus. Allow me to introduce you: O'Malley! The very man, above all others, I wished to know-excuse the dampness of my fin. May I take the liberty of inquiring for Lucy-I mean Mrs. O'Malley, and the rest of the family? Bon, it would be a kind turn in you to concoct a tumbler for my especial benefit; for the night is sharp, and I have had rather an unusual stretch. BON GAULTIER. It is no great swim from the end of the pier, since you were mad enough to try it. YOUNG SCOTLAND. Not from the end of the pier, certainly Inchkeith is a trifle further, BON GAULTIER. Inchkeith! What on earth do you mean? in upon the dredgers, on my way back, and re- If the natives arrive, I shall believe you. In the meantime, and as a condition of supper, I ordain you to describe your adventure in verse, for the edification of Captain O'Malley. O'MALLEY. Pray, don't put your friend to that trouble. Trouble! you don't know him. Verse flows more I'm sure I've no objections. By Jove, though, I made a near shave of it at the pier. Half-abut dozen fellows banged at me with ball; and if I had not dived like a Newfoundland, the whitings would have had a benefit. But to my rhyming gear. Here goes for THE LEANDER OF THE FORTH. It came-it came! a radiant gleam, And, like the young Leander, I She met me at the mussel cove, She did the tenderest of women: Entwined around us--after swimming! She wiped me from the briny wave, And entered to the Hall of light; Beneath the glare of a reflector ! I only looked into her eyes, And felt with each long, shuddering sigh, I knew that words, though winged with flame, "Ye're no attendin' to the beacon!" "The deil's been sittin' wi' our Jean !" Again I plunged into the flood, And topped each breaker like its fellow, Nor ever paused until I stood Beneath the steps of the Martello! O'MALLEY. BON GAULTIER. I am proud to say my nerves were not a whit stronger than your own. I saw Fanny Kemble, when she first appeared as Juliet, with the prestige of a great ancestral name, youth, and much beauty, and the rumour of talents, which then seemed to have left the stage for ever. I saw her, and enjoyed the scene as a high intellectual privilege. I heard the glorious verse flowing mellifluously from beautiful lips. I felt that the passion of the young Italian girl was there most sweetly counterfeited, and joined with the audience in giving her the full tribute of my applause. But I cannot applaud Miss Helen Faucit, for she is no counterfeit. YOUNG SCOTLAND. Of course not. You would as soon think of applauding Juliet herself, were she to pass before you either in the plenitude of her rapture or her woe. For myself, I was lost in the reality of the spectacle-from that wonderful balcony scene, so passionate, yet so pure-to the horrors of the ghostly vault, where the senseless body of the Bravo! capital! When I was at the storming sweetest lady lies, only to be roused by the embrace of Ciudad Rodrigoof her dying lover. BON GAULTIER. My dear O'Malley, were you at the theatre in .Glasgow? I see Miss Helen Faucit has been playing there. O'MALLEY. To be sure I was! A splendid creature. We're all wild about her in Dublin-and no wonder. As we used to say at College-"plane divina est.” BON GAULTIER. "She is indeed perfection!" YOUNG SCOTLAND. Oh, sweet Helen Faucit ! O'MALLEY. The Siddons of her time! BON GAULTIER. Nay, Captain, don't join in that idle cry! Comparisons are not for genius. Mrs. Pritchard was the ideal of her day, the Siddons of hersthen came Miss O'Neill; great too, but with a different order of genius. And now, we have Miss Helen Faucit, in all whose performances is that unmistakeable impress of genius, which strikes out new pathways for itself, and makes the standard by which it is to be judged. Hers is a creative genius of the highest order. The characters outlined by inferior men become noble realities in her hands. Bulwer and Knowles must have stared with delighted surprise, the one at her Pauline, in the Lady of Lyons, and the other at her Julia in the Hunchback. But it is as "Shakspere's women" that she should be seen. Her genius rises with her subject. What a flood of new light she flings upon those characters with which we had deemed ourselves most familiar! YOUNG SCOTLAND. Most true! What a reading, for instance, is that of her Lady Macbeth? Worth all the commentators in the world. BON GAULTIER. And that fearful starting from the tomb-the Lazarus look-the frantic clinging to the dead head of her dear lord! It was Isabella with her pot of basil-the same passionate lavishing of endearment, on the cold, love-hallowed corpse! I will grow round him in his place, Will you listen to some lines of mine upon this lady's Juliet? BON GAULTIER. Certainly. YOUNG SCOTLAND (reads) ON MISS HELEN FAUCIT'S JULIET. I have been wandering in enchanted ground, I heard thy voice, and straightway all around Cooled the red furnace of the southern sky, Within the dark pomegranate boughs unseen, With such angelic sweetness in its tone, For there, upon the balcony above, And whiter than the moonlight round her shining, |