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honourable trophy to the talents of its author. Since the author's death a volume of hyranshas also been published.

Although Dr. Dorridge had not possessed the abilities which his prose works indicate, the constant and increasing course of study, to which he subjected himself, must have originated valuable powers and qualities. He rose every morning at five o'clock, and thus secured to himself four hours of uninterrupted seclusion from the world. He was indefatigable in the pursuit of knowledge; his memory was retentive, and the most liberal feeling towards those who differed from him in the less essential points of religion, was a characteristic and amiable trait in the character of this distinguished Christian, who breathed away his soul in peace at Lisbon, whither he had gone for the benefit of his health in the year 1751, leaving a widow, a son and three daughters, whom he used playfully to call, Faith, Hope, and Charity.

Of the poetry of Dr. Doddridge, we cannot speak in terms of high admiration. It is exactly of that calibre which a well-educated and studious individual might be expected to write. A competent judge has selected and published some of his best specimens ; but even in these we do not discern the stamp of genius, so distinctly defined, as to induce us to describe their author as a poet of the first rank, in the records of the English muse. The specimen with which our readers are probably most familiar is the thirty-third of the paraphrases of the church of Scotland. The compilers, however, have made important alterations, a presumptive proof of the indifference of the original :—

What, tho' no flow'ra the fig-tree clothe,

Tho' vines their fruit deny;
The labour of the olive fail,

And fields no meat supply.

Tho' from the fold, with sad surprise,

My flock cut off, I see ;
Tho' famine pine in empty stalls,

Where herds were wont to be.

Yet, in the Lord will I be glad,

And glory in his love;
In him I'll joy who will the God

Of my salvation prove.

God is the treasure of my soul,

The source of lasting joy;
A joy which want shall not impair,

Nor death, itself, destroy.

So firm the saint's foundation rest,

His hopes can ne'er remove;
Sustain'd by God's Almighty band

And shelter'd in his love.

The olive and the fig, may fail,

The vines their fruit deny;
Famine, through all the fields prevail,

And flocks and herds may die.

God is the treasure of my soul,

A source of sacred joy;
Which no affliction can controul,

Nor death, itself, destroy.

In alluding to Dr. Doddridge, as a poet, we must, in justice, quote his celebrated lines on the motto of his family, "dura vivimus vivamus.";

Live, while you live, the epicure would say,
And seize the pleasures of the passing day;
Live, while you live, the sacred preacher cries,
And give to God each moment as it flies.
Lord, in my view, let both united be,
I live in pleasure, while I live to Thee.


SATURDAY EVENING. By the Author of the "Natural History or Enthusiasm." Iloldswoith and Ball, London, 1832.

It is the glory of our day, that there are so many valuable helps afforded us, for the acquisition of every kind of knowledge. And, notwithstanding, that, in the religious world particularly, there is much issued from the press, that is not only useless, but positively injurious to evangelical piety—yet, if we "take forth the precious from the vile," we shall find that they are inexcusable, who (so far as human agency is concerned) live without God, and without hope in the world. We, certainly, were never more impressed with the truth of what we have now stated than, after having read a work which has just now been published, under the title of " Saturday Evening." The subjects of this invaluable volume are well chosen, and full of interest to every class of sincere Christians, besides, being discussed in that bold and luminous style which characterise the writings of the author of the "Natural History of Enthusiasm." Unlike the ephemeral and sectarian productions of the cautious, compromising religionist, it will induce, to a salutary exercise of intellect on the part of the reader, such as cannot fail to impress him with a certainty and satisfaction that its author, is one who would preserve the completeness and consistency of Apostolic virtue. It deserves, and we have little doubt, will soon obtain a place in the first shelf of the library of every Minister of the Gospel, and Student of Theology; while its general diffusion among private Christians would do much for the preventing of Antinomian delusion, and for restoring the vigorous faith of the primitive age—making us men of holy action—of promptitude and courage, as well as men of meditation. We are certain, that such of our readers as may be prevailed upon to peruse the work, will thank us for having drawn their attention to it.

The following extract, made ad aperturum libri, and without our intending to determine by it the author's reputation, will give some knowledge of the original style of thought, and luminous expression, which brighten and adorn every page of the volume. It is from the Sermon "On The State Of SecluSion."

• ••••••• The place of our trial is as effectively a prison, as if our sky were a hemisphere of brass. We may indeed look out freely on every side upon the populous regions of illimitable space; but with the inhabitants of those regions we can hold no parley. Or if we look within the walls, it is still, and it is always true, that " the things eternal," that is to say, the permanent and universal principles of the moral system—the constant tendencies and ultimate issues of good and evil, are hidden and unseen; while those things that are (rfwxjufa) for a season —" the things temporal," do, by their irregularities, their complexity, their very insignificance, as well as their obtrusive glare, serve more to conceal than to display—more to confound than to illustrate, the great axioms of eternal virtue. The attractions, the dangers, the urgent interests of the present state, form (may we say) a screen which, with its gaudy and various colours, its painted pomps and trickeries, hangs ou every 6ide before the eye of man, encircling his theatre of exercise, and fencing out from his knowledge the great world of intellectual life.

That the rule of seclusion is the law of the divine government might be inferred, with some degree of certainty, from what we behold of the actual construction of the material universe. Why is it that the solid frame-work of nature (the purpose and intention of which can be nothing else than to sustain conscious beings) instead of presenting a continuous surface, that might be traversed from side to side, is actually broken up into innumerable globes; and these globes suspended in thin space at incalculable distances one from another? Why is it that, to obtain standingroom for his intelligent family, the Creator has taken a latitude a a height, a depth, which to created minds is equivalent to absolute infinitude? Why, unless it be to give effect to this necessary law of seclusion and separation? We say that there is seen, legibly inscribed upon the breadth of the midnight skies, a truth succinctly expressed in the words,—" The things eternal (universal) are unseen." And that special arrangement of the material system H peculiarly worthy of notice, which, while all intercourse between neighbouring worlds is effectively prevented, allows the vastness of the creation to be a spectacle to each portion of it. In truth, nothing in physical philosophy is so amazing as the means by which objects, much more remote one from the other than the utmost range of calculation can extend to, are made perceptible one to the other. If the mere greatness of creation is wonderful, there is even a higher, or a more superlative wonder, in the fact that this greatness should be cognizable from every point; or that, at any point where a percipient being may have his station, thither, as to a centre, the lines of knowledge should converge, so that the mind of that being should gather to itself true and distinct notices of whatever floats within the immeasurable sphere of stellar light!

And if so amazing an apparatus has been had recourse to for the purpose of conveying to us a knowledge of the greatness of the creation—if God, after extending his productive power incalculably, has superadded to the whole a lustre which exhibits all to all; so likewise hay he enabled us, by fair methods of inference and analogy, to attain the belief that all worlds are (like our own) the homes of life and intelligence: and we are then, by the same rules of analogy, led to suppose that the occupants of each of these widely separated spheres are, like ourselves, confined to their several birth-places—are, like ourselves, interdicted correspondence with the universal realm, and denied (as we) the benefit— if indeed it were a benefit, that might accrue from a more extensive experience than that which belongs to their home history.

This same law of seclusion which we see legibly written upon the material universe, is also carried out through all the arrangements of our own world, and in many modes takes effect, until each individual of mankind is straitened in his sphere, and shut up within a circle exceedingly small; so that if his particular experience be compared with the entire experience, not indeed of the universe, but only of the human race, or even of one generation of the race, the disproportion is incalculable; and so it is certainly true to him, that "the things eternal (universal) are unseen ;" while the things which he actually beholds are those only that are partial, and "for a season."

To effectuate the purposes of the moral system, and to secure the necessary conditions of the exercise of principles, it is not enough that man should be confined to one world ;—he must, within that world, be again and yet again secluded: and this is done by various means; as first—The entire human family is parcelled out through time, by the succession of generations: and as the term of life barely measures two of the periods wherein the race is renovated, each generation knows only its immediate predecessors; and, except so far as tradition and history convey to it (like fragments from a wreck) some loose particulars of the knowledge of the more ancient races of men, each generation, each successive rank, comes forward as a novice upon the stage of life, kuowing absolutely nothing of all that is to follow it, and almost nothing of what preceded it.—The rolling and swelling flood of human life moves on in billows so brief and proud, that, in rising to the brow of each watery ridge, nothing of the general expanse is beheld i —nothing seen, but the surge and fall of the precursive wave.

Those peculiar physical sentiments that distinguish the several stages of life, or that naturally spring from the circumstances attending each stage, greatly intercept the transmission, or natural descent of experience, from one generation to another.—The pride and heat of youthful hope render the youth, conscious as he is of vigour, impatient of paternal admonition; and then the pride and shame of the father, whose experience is in fact the history of his own follies, or crimes, again forbid, on his part, a true and candid delivery of the wisdom he has so hardly gained. That knowledge of life which the son receives from his father, is indeed valuable; but it is scarcely more than a grain or two in quantity.

Again, the human race of each generation is divided, and effectively sequestered by—remoteness of geographical position; by antipathy of races; by discordancy of tastes, and modes of life; and, most of all, by diversity of speech.—Speech, the prerogative and glory of man, the instrument both of knowledge and virtue, and the principal organ of advancement in every line, has become jarred by so many discords, that, though it subserves its purposes within particular circles, it utterly refuses to favour universal intercourse ; and, on the contrary, enhances and perpetuates all those other alienations that spring from remoteness of place, or dissimilarity of habits. It is by language (the very means of communion) that mankind is severed and estranged, and almost as much repelled, one from another, as if they were of different species, or had come together from different worlds. Who would have thought that men—the offspring of one womb, and parted perhaps only by a river or chain of mountains, should ever be reduced to the meagreness of mute signs and gestures!

But the law of seclusion does not here cease to operate—By the perils, necessities, and straits of ordinary life, by the pressure of every day's burden, by the opposition of private interests, and the contracted motives of selfishness, every man (more or less) has his attention so cencentrated upon the small surface of his particular advantages, his hopes and his fears, that he is very far from being a free spectator of that circle or theatre of life which actually comes within his range of observation. As his purposes are partial, so are his habits of contemplation :—he walks in one path, and gathers all the wisdom that he does at all gather, on the narrow line of that one path. Not one man in ten thousand is as wise as the facts he knows, or might know, would make him.

Then moreover it is implied in the very supposition of a system wherein many independent impulses are incessantly traversing each other, that each single train of events shall present as much of intricacy, of confusion, and of apparent anomaly, as of order, or abstract principle ;—every man, in his private sphere, has to do, not with the average result of general rules; but with the special chances of single throws ;—the incidents and occasions that come athwart him, for the trial of his motives, are fortuitous combinations, more than instances that might exemplify any given rule. Every man meets with at least as many exceptions, or Seeming exceptions, as cases in point. Much ambiguity attaches to the course of affairs, and ordinarily, that which is most obtrusive, or is most importunate, and clamorous, in urging its pretensions, is precisely what ought to be disregarded, and put out of the question of right and wrong. Comparatively few of the matters that come under the hand of man, range themselves clearly beneath general principles. Scarcely does he catch a glimpse, amid every day's hurry and care, of the working of abstract moral laws; but rather is tempted, every hour, to believe that exceptions, if not more frequent, are at least more valid than general rules.

The faculty of generalization is indeed given toman; and he has also the propensity to employ it; and there are individuals who, in the exercise of this power, gain acquaintance with whatever is true and permanent: but, in looking to the mass of mankind, moral generalization does scarcely more than bud, or give some inert indications of its existence, just as the chrysalis does, of the possession of the instincts of its future activity. Every circumstance of vulgar life opposes the disposition of the soul to spring upward, or stretch the wing of meditation towards a higher sphere: —the smallness of common affairs, as well as their urgency; their uniformity, or sameness of recurrence; and their multiplicity ;— the contaminations of life, and its ri Jicule also; the absurdity and the folly that infest all parts of human conduct, as well as the abjectness of the miseries that afflict mankind, are all so many causes of depression, or of limitation, that confine man to a spot on the surface of earth, and hedge about his prospect.

It is true that, in every age, the more intelligent and sagacious portion of mankind has, amid the confusion and ambiguity of the moral system rightly inferred universal principles; and, with more or less admixture of error, has reached and defined the unalterable canons of virtue. But (revelation apart) the process through which this wisdom was gained has been too abstruse, or difficult, to recommend itself to vulgar minds; and such, conversant always with instances that seem to contradict the rule, have been prone to believe that, to pay homage to Abstract truth, is to worship a powerless or a sleeping divinity.

It may perplex us to contemplate the condition of man, as thus conversant as much with the anomalies as with the rules of the moral system: nevertheless the fact of his being so, whatever purpose it may be destined to fulfil, is manifestly only a part of the universal constitution under the conditions of' which, as it seems, the innumerable families of the creation, as well as ourselves, are placed;—if men, individually, are confined to a narrow line of things, and if nations are debarred much intercourse, one with another, and if generations come and pass away with little knowledge of their precursors, and transmitting little of themselves to their successors, all this separation and seclusion is only the ramification of that great principle which, as we see, has broken up the solid material of the universe into innumerable gohules, and has swung each little sphere in the centre of an impassable solitude of space.

But how much soever of ambiguity or confusion may attend universal moral principles, so far as they are to be gathered by each individual from his particular experience, neither those principles, nor the method of establishing them, are really invalid, or vague.—The true description of them is, that they are at once demonstrable, or certain; but not obtrusive. This is the uniform character of every kind of practical or theoretical wisdom in the present state;—it is valid, and ascertainable ; but not loud or importunate in its mode of challenging attention. Whoever will, may acquaint himself with truth and virtue: but neither truth nor virtue stands on the highway, or forces herself upon the notice of passengers. All this is only in harmony with the apparent intention of the visible world, considered as a framework for the support of a moral system. The very same law which divides the family of God into so many separate communities, imposes (within the circle of each community) a reserve, a silence, upon wisdom and virtue.

Wisdom and virtue calmly utter their maxims; but compel no attention, no obedience : they are not trumpet-tongued ; neither do they adduce, as they might, in support of their doctrine, the evidence of that great book of facts wherein is written the complete history of man. Let it it only be imagined that, in every controversy between the inducements of evil, and the reasons of virtue, there were exhibited to the wavering spirit all the cases in point, and all the issues of those cases, that stand upon the faithful records of the human family of all ages. What impetuosity of passion, what audacity, could resist the inference in favour of virtue; or rush upon its guilty pleasures through the crowd of a million of victims? No such force is granted, in the present state, to the reasons of virtue ; and, turn which way we will, it is always true that "the things eternal are unseen—the things that are seen are temporal."


"THE GRACES ALTOGETHER. (From an Old Manuscript.) All her good children, nature hath inclin'd, T' aspire to full perfection, in their kinde; Therefore, she makes each thing, some good to love, That being had, that good may better prove: Yet, in their choice of good, they often err, And seeing good, before time—good preferre. But, let us see, if we can choose the thing, That, to our sex, doth most perfection bring.


Our perfect'st crown is made of beautie's flowers,
Which, of itself, supplies all other dowers;
Women excell the perfectest man in this,
And, therefore, herein, their perfection is.
We, for the beautie, Meav'n itself admire.
Fair fields, fair houses, gold and pearls desire;
Beautie doth always health and youth implie—
Beautie delights the noblest sense—the eye.


Beauties delights the sense, but wit the reason,
Wit lasts an age, and beautie but a season;
The sense is quickly cloy'd with beauties taste,
But wit's delight still quick and fresh doth last;
Beautie, weake eyes with her illusion blinds,
Wit conquers spirits and triumphs ovrc minds;
Dead things have beautie, only men have wit,
And men's perfection doth consist in it.


Wit will want matter, beuutie ornament.
If wealth doe want which is omnipotent;
Wealth is a power which passeth nature farre,
Wealth makes a goose, a "van, a spark, a starrc;
Wealth on a cottage can a palace build.
New paint old walls, and rotten timbers guild;
Not a faire face, but fortune's fair I crave;
Let me want wit, so I foole's fortune have.


Yet, these perfections, most imperfect be.
If there be wanting vertue's modesty;
Vertue's aspect wold have the sweetest grace,
If we could see, as we conceive her face.
Virtue guides wit with well affected will,
Which, if wit want, it proves a dangerous ill;
Virtue gets wealth, with her good government,
If not, she's rich, because she is content.

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many others of their kind not less devoted, though more fortunate. Toy's grave is covered with Admiration's offerings, and the death-bed of Ney is noted by want of note. He had a grave here— a handsome one—but it was removed; this is paltry. Some stone might have been awarded to his memory, with a fitting epitaph; for, if he deserved death, he died nobly and like a soldier. His political offence had been punished, nor was it generous to withhold from him, afterwards, the honour due to his military talents. —Sketches by a Travelling Architect.


woman who accompanied more coincident with our

"This," said I to a young French me, "is laid out in a manner much notion of good landscape gardening than your boasted Tuileries." "Doubtless," said she,—" and the grave-stones, too,—are they not objects more suited to your sober eye and pensive mind, than the fashionable and over-smiling tlemoiseltess who so constantly intrude themselves upon your attention in the latter ?"—" By no means," I replied,—"yet, surely you must allow that the dead inhabit the most beautiful spot in the suburbs of Paris."

Shops for the sale of funeral wreaths and tomb-stones announce your approach to this charming cemetery, where every idea of the corruption working below, is suppressed by the sight of the fresh beauty which blooms above. The earth, inclosing the decayed remnants of mortality, is yet enamelled with the gayest flowers, aud tufted with vigorous ever-greens. Here are elegant tombs, and sarcophagi telling us of their lamented inmates, chaplcts, from the hand of surviving Affection, scattered around, with violets and hcart's-ease springing from every grave.

An occasional walk in such a place, with all its just "appliances," must do us a world of good. Here, we have hints, gentle and not to be misunderstood, with sermons given in a way the least hurtful to our vanity, the most salutary to our morals. The eulogies carved by Friendship's hand on the monuments of deceased worth, in appearing before us, ask us to deserve them. Here are lessons, tending to make husbands constant, wives affectionate, and children dutiful; while an external pleasantness wins ns to the notice of them, and shrouds from our weakness, the terror of death. Abelard aud Eloise are here enshrined, with, perhaps,


Nature had bestowed on Burke, a boundless imagination, aided by a memory of equal strength and tenacity. His fancy was so vivid, that it seemed to light up by its powers, and to burn, without consuming the aliment on which it fed; sometimes bearing him away into ideal scenes, created by his own exbuberant mind; and from which he sooner or later returned to the subject of debate, descending from his more aerial flights, by a gentle and imperceptible gradation, till he again touched the ground WraxalL

In this meane time, was guid peace and rest in Scotland, and great love betwixt the King, (Jas. IV.) and his subjects. So that he would ride out through any part of the realme, him alone, unknowiu that he was the king, and would ligge in puir mene's huises, as he had bein ane travelloure through the countries, and would require of them quhair the king was, and quhai ane man he was, and quhat they spoke of him through the countrie. So that by these answers, the king heard the common truth of himself.

There are many things that, in themselves, have nothing truly delighting: on the contrary, they have a good deal of bitterness in them; and yet, by our perverse appetites after forbidden objects, are not only ranked among the pleasures, but are made even the greatest designs of life.—Sir Thomas More.

There is a certain warmth of gratitude, which not only acquits us of favour received, but even, while we are repaying our friends what we owed, makes them our debtors.—Rochefoucault.

When thou sittest down to table, offer up thy prayers—when thou par takes t food, pour forth thy thanks to him from whom that food proceedeth. If thou callest in the aid of wine, to sustain thy drooping strength, oh, think on him who bade the vine to flourish, that it might cheer thy heart, and alleviate thy pains.— St. Basile.

Fine Arts.—Nothing can be further from striking or violent expression than the face of the Venus of Medici: but its physiognomy is so sweet, so intelligent; its beauty seems so perfectly the mirror of a celestial mind, that though at the first glance it appear mere corporeal beauty, yet, when accurately contemplated, it seems animated with the intellects of a superior being.—Sir J. E. Smith.

The Three Emblems Of Uncertainty In some dull and

ill written letters by one Wickford, a singular passage occurs. Speaking of English politics and the approach of the Princess from England to Holland, to espouse William the Stadholder, be observes, " but this depends upon three things very uncertain, vim : —the wind, a woman's will, and a British parliament."


Life's like an Inu where travellers stay:
Some only breakfast and away.
Others for dinner stay, and are full fed;
The oldest only soup and go to bed.
Long is his bill who lingers out the day:
Who goes the soonest has the least to pay.


Mn.'s, " Red Warrior," according to the rules which Petrarch has laid down, is misnamed a Sonnet, and at the hands of our Poetical Critic, in its author's own words, "an awful death hath found!"

"Mademoiselle Marryme," will grace our columns when we have room.

"Cyrus's" Poem is excellent, but it is too long for our columns.

All communications fur the Editor of " Tag Day" are requested to be left with the Publisher, Mr. John Finlay, No. 9, Miller Street.

Published, every Morning, Sunday excepted, by John Finlay, at No. 9, Miller Street; and Sold by John Wylie, 97, Argyle Street; David Robertson, and W. R. M'phun, Glasgow; Thomas Stevenson, and the other Booksellers, Edinburgh J DaVid Dick, Bookseller, Paisley: A. Laing, Greenock; and J. Glass, Bookseller, Bothsay.







[the following lively epistle, from a valued correspondent in the Modern Athens, we insert without a single syllable of comment. It will speak for itself.]

To the Editor of Tue Day.

Sir,—" Was I to blame, O, Athenians! for having given you one happy day ?" was the reply which saved the slave who had spread the false report of a victory. The Athenians computed the day's enjoyment as enough, at least, to detract from the cruel disappointment he had caused; and, if this could take place amid the reckless gaiety of an Athenian democracy, how much more, in this bleak north-western corner, do we, whose every day brings the too sure tidings of defeats from sickness, poverty, old age, and, finally, from the "fell sergeant" death, who is sure to be "general," before he dies; how much, I say, do we not owe to those who come among us, as the cheering ministers of mirth and laughter—loving gaiety, whose very countenances are, like the glad tidings of a victory over mischance and woe; what, though care do come behind, they can bid him wait, and, imposing their own portly and well-endowed corporations betwixt ns and the "fell despiteous fiend," can, at least, prevent our seeing him till their departure; and what, perhaps, is better than all, these worthies seldom take their leave without asking leave to come again. Of such, among

the foremost, was my friend Mr. M . Peace to

his ashes, and may his merry ghost preside, for ever, in some snug coterie of the "good society" at the Blythswood Hill end of the Elysian Fields; peace, I say, and praise to his memory, for he, indeed, "Could cheat us of our griefs, And bid abashed despondence stand aside."

He was, indeed, a hearty fellow; cracked a good joke, sung a better song, and was the very best raconteur in our community ; his memory was most minute and retentive, and his descriptions perfectly graphic, while he was so admirable a mimic, that you instantly forgot the narrator and had before you the actual living, breathing, talking subject of the tale. Mathews might have learned, and I believe did learn, a good deal from him. I shall never forget the exquisite mode in which he pourtrayed the stiff, heavy, costive delivery of the following clerical pun, which the perpetrator himself stared at, as an unwonted, unauthorized intruder:—

The Rev. Dr. had engaged a brother to

preach for him on a rainy Sunday morning; the substitute, a thorough moderate, in every thing but the duration of his discourses, arrived, dripping and dejected, and, meeting his brother in the Vestry, groaned out, "Och, Doctor! whare can I gang to dry me?" "'Deed, Doctor," responded the other, " first gang your ways up to the pulpit, ye'll be dry enough there."

M , like all other good hearted "sweet soothers of our cares," was of the good old Tory school; none of your growling Radicals, or sulky Whigs; he agreed with Sir Walter and all the other public men, of whom Scotland really has reason to be proud, that, if Reform be a good thing, it should, like other good things, begin at home. I beg your pardon, my dear ex-Algerine Despot, but I am sure you cannot

be "out of our pale," especially since your unmerited extrusion by these rascally French Radicals ;—which,

by the way, puts me in mind, that M had the

good fortune to be acquainted with Charles X. and several of his suite; either he himself, or, at least, some one nearly connected with him, had the honour, during his first sojourn at Holyrood, of very unrestricted intercourse, and, of course, had a host of anecdotes with which he used to amuse his friends: of these, the following is one which he did not tell, but which I shall take the liberty to communicate as eminently character istic of the author of the "Ordonnances." He could get no sleep for a night or two in consequence of the howling of a dog belonging to one of his neighbours of the sanctuary "ce diable de chien," he said, "Allez le tirer." His servant went and demanded the dog for destruction, when the owner, a sturdy Scot, gave him this pithy answer—" Ye may tell the Count (D'Artois) frae me, that if he was the King o' France, aye, or the King of England, he daurna lay a finger on my doug." This being duly reported, "Ma foi," said the Prince, in amazement, " Void un royaume, qui s'appelle libre, Ou on ne petit pas tirer sur un chien;" an admirable pendant this to Jonathan's, "a pretty land of liberty, where a man can't larrop his own nigger." However, the old gentleman, like his respectable predecessor, the Tyrant of Syracuse and Pedagogue of Corinth, however he may be thought to have acted in France, has, at least in Scotland, comported himself with the quiet dignity of cheerful resignation in adversity, and, although seemingly averse to old debts and new duns, is, at least, by no means averse, to renew acquaintances of a less important nature. My friend M—— was, therefore, early advertised, that "His Most Christian Majesty" would be rejoiced to see him presented at the Court of St. Germains, I should rather say Holyrood. By the bye, I believe the invitation was given about the same time that Mademoiselle, the only sister of Henry V. as he will be when he

"Claims all his claims, and has his claims allowed."

came into his shop in Street, and presented him

with a miniature of her mother, (the Queen Mother I was going to say,) the Duchess De Berri. I shall

never forget the smile of exultation with which M

used to exhibit this picture, (a trumpery daub it was too,) nor the joyous glee with which he used to mimic the infantine voice of the charming little Princess, as the fairy tales say, in repeating her presentation address of " Ah, Mr. M , you must not think this so

pretty as mamma; it is very like mamma a long time ago, when mamma, very little girl, faraway in Naples; mamma look far much better now; when you shall see her, you shall say so too." Well, as I was saying, to Court he went, arrayed ap a pie, selon les regies, was admitted, marched boldly up stairs to the anti-chamber, and presented his card and credentials, (the card,

I believe, of the Due de ,) the Lord or lacquey in

waiting, he knew not which, received them with the air of a Swiss "Mousquetaire," and with all the caremonious civility of the " ancien regime," requested him to wait an instant, and he would communicate within. "I now began to quake," said my friend, "and still more when his immediate return and obsequious bow, announced my instant admittance. Bowing, he threw open the door, I could na but do the like, so I een booed in wi' my head down, like a ram in a bntting match, and hardly kent where I was, till a tall, hale, weel favoured old gentleman, came from a table at

which he was standing with, 'ah, Mr. M how do

you?' 1 You are my very old friend :' Your friend—ah, he is dead! he was my very good friend.' I felt quite recovered at his kind-hearted condescension, and paid my respects, I hope becomingly—after some more chit-chat of auld langsyne, I was taken notice of by his son the Due D'Angouleme, who introduced me to his wife by simply pointing towards her, and saying, * Ea Dauphine.' He was a good natured looking man, like, but not nearly so good looking as his father. I next renewed my acquaintance with the Due de Polignae, brother of the unfortunate Minister, then at Paris under trial for high treason. He also was an old acquaintance of mine, and, in going over some old matters, I unwittingly mentioned the name of his brother, and shall never forget the dejection which for a moment clouded the countenance of the hearty old Frenchman, as he said, 'ah, my poor brother, but we hope for the best.' This was my only drawback from a most enchanting half hour, and, on taking my leave,

the Ex-king himself said, ' well Mr. M , you have

called on me, I shall see you again some day, as I take my walk.'" The above is a feeble transcript from my unretentive memory, but no writing could convey the admirable style of the narrator, nor the tones in which, master of French himself, he imitated the broken English of the illustrious exiles. However, not to exceed your limits, I must now constrain myself, my dearest,

"Sole cause that makes St. Mungo say,
He now is brilliant every 'Day:'"

To bid you farewell.



By the death of Mr. Douglas, at his house, Hart Street, Edinburgh, in January last, the Arts have been deprived of an eminent painter, and society of an agreeable, intelligent and useful member.

Mr. Douglas, at an early age, was apprenticed to Mr. Scott, engraver, and was employed by him in making drawings for magazines, which at that time were generally decorated with views of ancient castles, and the more interesting delineations of Scottish scenery. He began his career of miniature painting when a mere boy, his companions and relations being in their turn the subject of his pencil, and, although some of these early productions were only sketches, they generally indicated the likeness so powerfully, that no difficulty was felt in tracing the resemblance. At length one picture of our young artist was so good, that the gentleman who sat for it insisted it should be increased at the jeweller's, and young Douglas hastened with it for that purpose to Mr. White's, with whom he had contracted a slight acquaintance. This gentleman struck with the beauty of the work, and the correct likeness, immediately recommended the young artist to follow miniature painting as a profession, nor did his friendship end in advice only, for he introduced him to a number of his acquaintance, and of these Lord Duncan was the first, who agreed to put to the test the talents of his young protegee. Fortunately, the picture was remarkable for its fidelity and success, and from that moment Mr. Douglas determined to devote his time and talents to the pencil. His range was at first extensive. He painted landscape, cattle and familiar scenes, whilst he now produced in miniature an effect peculiarly his own, by colouring the face and arms and working the other parts, and landscape in pencil. But at length his business increased so much, that he was obliged to devote himself entirely to miniature on ivory. His portraits have generally a pleasing expression, the sitter always

seems in a happy mood, which no doubt in part resulted from the circumstance of Mr. Douglas being a person of superior address, gentlemanly manners, and so abounding in amusing anecdote, that he never failed to please and entertain those who employed him.

Several anecdotes are told of the happy exercise of his power of pleasing. Lord sat for his miniature. The engagements of his Lordship were numerous, and his time limited. Mr. Douglas under such circumstances felt it impossible to do justice to this picture, and put forth all his powers of entertainment. His Lordship was so much amused, that he soon forgot his engagements, he laughed and listened and listened and laughed, until suddenly recollecting an appointment, he pulled forth his watch, and was astonished to find that instead of one, he had sat three hours with the amusing artist. "Douglas," he exclaimed, " this is really too bad. I have for three hours listened to your stories, instead of sitting I have been laughing, and instead of painting you have been jesting:" but Mr. Douglas replied, "my Lord, if I were to allow you or any other person to sit for an hour without speaking, you would get melancholy and dull, but by conversation of an amusing kind, I keep up your spirits, the time passes pleasantly, and you shall now see, my Lord, I have not been idle."

Mr. Douglas was deservedly respected by a numerous circle of nobility and gentry, from whom he had many invitations; but these he generally declined, devoting himself entirely to his profession, the more necessary, when we state, that he had frequently forty or fifty miniatures, of different sizes, in progress. His industry was crowned with great success, and had death not snatched away the fair " daughter of a royal line," regal favor also would have awaited him, as he was appointed miniature painter for Scotland, to Her Royal Highness the Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold.

Mr. Douglas died of ossification of the heart, at the age of forty-nine. His early death has left his family in great affliction, but his early exertions and constant attention to his art, we rejoice to say, have enabled him to leave that family in circumstances of comfort and independence.


The Feench Poetical Gift, or Court Elementaire de Literature, from Malherbe to Voltaire. Edited by Moss. L. FenWick De Pobquet. Loudon, 1832.

The Editor of this volume is an individual who has been, for some time labouring in London to establish a new and more perfect system of tuition. Although, in our own experience of studying languages, we have always found that there is no royal road to a correct knowledge of them, we cannot refrain from awarding, to Monsieur De Porquet, that meed of praise which he deserves. The fact is, this foreigner's method is one of the very best of the many which have been submitted to the public; but, while we say so, we must, at the same time confess, that it is only by the greatest diligence and perseverance that an accurate knowledge of any tongue can be acquired.

The volume before us, as its name betokens, is a Poetical liecueil, which, while it conveys to its readers some of the most striking passages of the Gallic Muse, is, at the same time, intended to give examples of those phrases which are either idiomatic, or used in a figurative sense, and by reading them not literally, but, in the spirit of the original, acquire the various peculiarities of the poetical phraseology of France. The work is well compiled ; and what is, perhaps, its greatest charm and its greatest merit, it offers nothing which the most innocent, guileless girl, may not read with advantage. It, in fact, realizes the common Apothegm of Bouilly,

La mOre en permettra la lecture i aa fille, which is the highest of all compliments that we can pay to a book dedicated peculiarly to the tuition and instruction of youth.

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