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The case of distress contained in the following letter has excited no small degree of sympathy in the bosoms of the Council of Ten. We trust the tender grievances complained of will meet the "soft blue eye" of her "jolly good-looking Bachelor," and have the effect of rendering his heart as soft as his " eye." Should this not be the case, we fear our fair correspondent will be looking rather blue herself. We need not say she has all our best wishes for the happy result of her intended experiment.

To the Editor of The Bat. Sir,—I would have you understand, that the person who now addresses you, has advanced pretty far up the hill of life. Every step I make, wrings a sigh from my sad heart; and, the recurring thought of fear, that I shall go down to the grave a virgin, makes me fret and weep most deploringly. This is the fourth leap year I have seen since the time I lept out of my teens, and I have been so silly, as to allow those periods of high privilege to our sex— these some leap years to pass away—as if I cared not for being married, or wasted a single thought on the best man that ever walked in a Wellington boot, or a Hessian either. Some of my more fortunate companions, who may now be seen walking on the Sauchiehall road, of a fine day, with two—with three—with four, or peradventure with five—rosy smiling little cherubs at their feet, often chide me in a humorous way, for being too reserved— too pernickety—too much the fine lady for the rattling beaux of of Glasgow, else I might have been married long ago. They may joke and tease me as they please; in my own opinion, such faults I do not possess. At one time, Mr. Day, there was a great big booby of a grocer came a courting me, with half a dozen of rings on his fingers—I know not how many seals at the watch, and his head covered with tremendously bushy red hair. Well, happening to be asked to a large dinner party, who should salute me on my entree to the parlour, but the gallant grocer! He took good care to procure a seat next me at dinner. Asked me to drink •wine—said my hand was as white as loaf-sugar, and that my cheek looked very like an American apple. My glass remaining about half-full of wine, he seized it, drank it off, and made a low joke about it being as good as a kiss. This vulgarity I could not endure, and with some hauteur, ordered the servant to take away the wine glass and bring another. The Knight of the sugar loaf reddened to the temples, and never spoke to me more. The thing was noised abroad next day, and every body set me down as being shockingly proud, and the whole tribe of spinsters said I had used the young man very ill, and ought to be ashamed of myself. For • a long while no one ventured to sue me for his lady love. At length a spruce young Ensign had the courage to pay his addresses to me; but, having declined to walk arm-in-arm with him along the Trongate, he took it in high dudgeon, and wrote me a very impertinent note next day, in which he hinted, that, had I been a man, he would have called me out. Pitiful creature! thought I, and put his card coolly into the fire. Time rolled on, and one evening, while sipping my tea, a jolly, good-looking old Bachelor insinuated himself into my good graces. He has been a constant visitor ever since, and many's the good rub at cribbage we have had together. I love him, and methinks he loves me too; but, in discoursing of love, the only organ he uses, is his soft blue eye. I often think in secret what a happy couple we would make, and have resolved again and again to use the privilege this year affords me of " popping the question" myself; but, as I don't like to be singular in anything, I hereby request, nay, beseech all damsels similarly situated, to join me in this mode of attempting to get a husband; and, if they be agreeable, let next Wednesday be fixed upon, to make a simultaneous charge at " popping."—Yours respectfully, W. L. U. Mahrtme.

P. S.—I will be sure to let you know, good Mr. Day, whether or not I succeed. M.

Glasgow, 8th March, 1833.


Leaking Tower or Pisa.—In the city of Pisa, there is a round tower, of eight stories of pillars, 180 feet high, inclining so much off the perpendicular that the top projects fifteen feet over the base. The base, on the lower side, appears sunk in the ground,

about six feet. It is built of marble, and has stood more than six hundred years, without fissure or decay, having been raised in 1171. It is supposed to have sunk, when built as high as the fifth story, and the architect had the boldness and skill to complete it in the direction it had taken.—Anon.

Celerity ar Cloth Manufacture In England, the fleece

has been taken from the sheep, manufactured into cloth, and made into a coat, in the short space of thirteen hours and twenty minutes.

Munden.—Soon after the death of Munden, an actor of the Surrey, meeting an acquaintance, who was well known to them both, accosted him thus :—" So, we have lost our old friend and relative, Joe Munden." "It's true," quoth the other, "poor Munden is gone; but where is the relationship?" "Pshaw, man," said the player, looking gravely," are we not, all of us, mundane."

The nature of a journey to Siberia, is exceedingly misunderstood in this country, and by the world in general. Such a degree of banishment presents to our minds the picture of every thing deplorable in the lot of humanity. When viewed a little nearer, this picture has no such frightful aspect, and a man must both see what the Russian bears, and have a detailed account of what he is devoted to in his new residence, to estimate fairly the extent of the sacrifice, which the caprice of his tyrant may at any moment, and without any reason compel him to undergo.— Dr. Clarke.

Modern School Of Poetry.—There is a small but peculiar class of versifiers—a select band of poetasters—men of some fancy, a little learning, less taste, and almost no feeling, who have invented a manner of writing aud thinking frigidly artificial, while affecting to be negligently natural, though no more resembling nature than the flowers and shell-work of our grandmothers represented the roses and carnations they caricatured.—Montgomery.

Literary Frauds.—Leonard Aretino, a distinguished scholar, at the dawn of modern literature, having found a Greek Manuscript of Procopius de bello Golhico, he translated it into Latin, and published the work—but, concealing the author's name, it passed as his own, till another M.S. of the same work being dug out of its grave, the fraud of Aretino was detected. Barbosa, a bishop of Ugento, 1649, has printed, among his works, a treatise, which, it is said, he obtained, by having perceived one of his domestics bringing in a fish, rolled in a leaf of written paper, which his curiosity led him to examine. He was sufficiently interested to run out and search the fish market, till he found the manuscript out of which it had been torn. He purchased and published it under the title De Officio Episcopi.

Vicar Of Bray.—The Vicar of Bray, in Berkshire, was a Papist under the reign of Henry the Eighth, and a Protestant under Edward the Sixth; he was a Papist again, under Mary, and once more became a Protestant in the reign of Elizabeth. When this scandal to the gown was reproached for his versatility of religious creeds, and taxed for being a turncoat and an unconstant changeling, as Fuller expresses it, he replied, "Not so, neither! for, if I changed my religion, I am sure I kept true to my principle, which is, to live aud die the Vicar of Bray!"

From the Spanish.

When stars bedeck the azure sky,

And shine the sparkling gems of night,

Oh, Lady! oft I wish to sigh,

And wander near tby chamber light,

Whose faintly glowing ray discloses

The spot where innocence reposes.

And, when the smiling moonbeams play,

In silver radiance on thy bower,
In loneliness I pensive stray,

To worship there its fairest flower;
And hope so sweet a rose as thee,
May ever bloom for one like me.

But still thy image is the shrine

Where all my musings fondly dwell;

Y et strange, this wayward heart of mine
To thee can ne'er its failings tell;

And though 'twould dare a host in fight,

It trembles in a Lady's sight.

Then happy be thy hour of rest,

Though hopeless still my breast must swell; For one, within whose gentle breast

Resides each grace, I love so well; Though, chance, my only doom may be To love and to despair for thee.


Tub want of a fashionable journal which might record the gossip of the highest circles, after the manner of the Court Journal, has often been experienced in Glasgow; and, though we have sometimes attempted to supply the void, the scarcity of parties this season, has given us opportunity for only a limited chronicle of such occurrences. The fact, that gaiety is carried in this city to a height which would furnish ample materials for our Spectacles to comment upon, is already beyond dispute, and a farther instance of it has lately presented itself. At this moment, all St. Vincent Street is busy in discussing the events of a dejeuner and hull, which were given in the beginning of last week, on occasion of the marriage of a young and handsome couple. The splendour of the entertainments is very much lauded by the different coteries, and will very probably furnish a subject of drawing-room conversation for some weeks.


The late provost C , of E , though a very worthy man,

and of no mean literary attainments, was generally reported by his brethren in council, who were, like all other town councillors, remarkably fond of good eating, and, its indispensible concomitant, good drinking, to be rigidly economical—nay, even parsimonious in the management of his household affairs; his economy extending even to the entertainments which, as Lord Provost, he had to give, and for which he received a pretty good allowance from the public purse. Some of his "drouthy neighbours" would allege that his wine-cellar exhibited only "a beggarly account of empty Una," and a few of the more noted topers among them, resolved to put this to the test, and vaunted that they "would drink the Provost dry." Accordingly, at his lordship's next entertainment, they pushed such a rapid circulation of the bottle, that ere long the astonished chief magistrate was obliged, from a deficiency in his own stock, to send to purchase a dozen of wine! Not many days after this occurrence, a proposal chanced to be brought forward at the council-board, for draining a large meadow belonging to the city, then almost a complete swamp. While the council were debating this important matter, the worthy Provost abruptly interrupted their discussion, and, with a look and tone of waggery, blended with irony, exclaimed:—" Gentlemen, you may save yourselves all this trouble—just stave a puncheon of rum into the

stank, and the convener and baillie M will drink it dry in a


From a Correspondent.

Half-way between Largs and Kilburnie, the eye of the traveller is arrested by the lofty conical top of the Knockhill. On the summit of that hill, did Alexander King of Scotland survey, in person, the camp wherein the Norwegians lay, previous to the battle of Largs, and tradition says, that, to commemorate that event, the rugged pyramid or cairn which now remains, wa9 then first erected. About two miles nearer Largs, on the banks of the Kelburn, there is to be seen the remains of the Norwegian camp. Although not very distinct, still the eye can easily trace the outlines of an encampment. It is a large circular place, which has evidently been strongly intrenched, and has the appearance of having once been defended by walls and mounds of earth; but these are long since overgrown with moss and turf. Three miles farther on there is a high range of hills overhanging the village of Largs, on which the famous battle of that name was fought, between the Scotch and Norwegians, and which ended in the defeat and expulsion of the latter from this country. On the braes immediately above the mansion house of Hailie, beneath some stunted and withered trees, three large flat stones are shewn to the stranger, as the graves wherein the dead were buried after that memorable engagement. One in particular which stands apart from the others, and on which there are still traces of hieroglyphics and ancient letters, is pointed out as the grave in which the son of Haco, King of the Norwegians, and Dracobert the admiral of his fleet, were buried; and, in corroboration of this, there have been found at several periods, adjoining the graves, pieces of old armour, ancient coins, &c. Every one who is at all acquainted with the History of Scotland,

must know that, after the defeat of the Norwegians, they fled to Fairlie Bay, where their ships were moored, and hastily set sail. Soon after, a violent storm arose, which made dreadful havoc among their fleet, sinking some and wrecking others upon the then barren shores of the surrounding country. Amongst other places, a number were thrown on the bleak desolate shores of the Little Cumbrae Island, where they all perished from famine. Many years afterwards, their whitened and bleached bones were found on the shores and buried. The late Earl of Eglinton, to whom the island belonged, employed people, about the year 1813, to raise the ground in hopes of discovering some traces of these unfortunates, aud he was amply repaid for his trouble, by finding many strange relics of the days that are now gone. An account of the success of the excavations was published at the time, under the direction of his Lordship.


At a numerous supper party with the Duchess Amelia, I was sitting far off her, and chanced this time, also, to be taciturn, and rather meditative. My neighbours reproved me for it, and there rose a little movement, the cause of which, at length reached up to higher personages. Madame de Stael heard the accusation of my silence, expressed herself regarding it, in the usual terms, and added, 'On the whole, I never like Goethe, till he has bad a bottle of champaigne.' I said half aloud, so that those next me could hear, ' I suppose then, we have often got a little elevated together.' A moderate laugh ensued. She wanted to know the cause. No one could or would give a French version of my words in their proper sense; till at last, Benjamin Constant, one of those near me, undertook, as she continued asking and importuning, to satisfy her by some euphemistic phrase, aud so terminate the business.— Goethe.


Abistocract,—Not such, as conquest, or feudality might found, but such as great and illustrious qualities give birth to, and time fosters into dignity, is, indeed, a natural element of every society. It is wise to uphold irs existence.—Cream.

A Poetical Barber.—The following choice morsel was exhibited, a few weeks ago, over the shop door of a worthy t at Todmorden :—

To all who has air, or beards to crop,
I recommend my shavin' shop;
Cbeape hand luxyurious does trim
The roughest beards of any chin ,
Cuts the air on the newest plan,
And charges littler than any man.

"The best of remedies is a beef-steak
Against sea-sickness: try it, Sir, before
You sneer, and I assure you this is true,
For I have found it answer—so may you."



We are surprised that our intelligent correspondent, Giovanni, should pay the least attention to rumours which only malice and envy could have put into circulation. Let only one overt act be committed by the slanderer, and we have a rod in pickle which will for ever silence him.

"Mr Teacher" does not convey a lesson sufficiently moral for our readers.

Really our Poetical correspondents are a thin-skiuned, waspish generation. We must, for their own sakes, entreat them to submit to the rejection of their pieces with a little more temper.

We are at a loss to know what obligation we have coufered on "A. B." that he should feel himself so " much oblidged."

1fgT All communications for the Editor of " Tue Day" are requested to be left with the Publisher, Mr. John Finlay, No. 9, Miller Street.

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OURSELVES AND OUR LETTER BOX. Cuncti adsiat, meritoquc expoctent prscmia palms.

Gentle and Courteous Reader! We have now had the pleasure of holding, with thee, no less than sixtyone regular tete-a-tetes, and it is, perhaps, not unfair to suppose, that the recollection of these will induce thee to continue still to hold with us many more. It has been our earnest desire, in all that we have said or sung, to please thee, and if, at any time, we have failed in doing so, the blame, it is to be hoped, must be attributed to the topics which we have unfortunately selected, rather than to the method of treating them. We have, in fact, most anxiously catered for thy amusement and instruction, and, provided we are still allowed to claim thy friendly ear, we will continue to do so as long as we can spin brain into typography! We have told thee of " The Council of Ten," who select and regulate thy morning's literary repast, and have thrown out hints regarding its late and early sittings for thy intellectual benefit. Some wiseacres and would-be critics have idly insinuated, that this decemvirate is nothing but a fiction, a mere ideal knot of phantoms, like those which are said to be congregated round the far-famed board of that modern Athenian Ambrose. Of this false opinion, however—the opinion of certain silly detractors whom we despise, and of several envious foes whom we have lashed—we shall now endeavour to disabuse thee; and,'perhaps, there can be no better method of effectually accomplishing this desirable end than by introducing thee, as our best friend, into the circle of a monthly meeting of our Council, and thereby rendering thee at once a witness of, and a participator in those literary orgies which thy patronage, to each and all of that Board, so well deserves. Listen, then, while we present thee with a key to Ourselves and Our Letter Box.

The monthly dinner of the " Council of Ten" took place on the last day of February—when the whole members were present. The Editor in the chair— the office of Croupier was ably filled, by our Poetical Critic. The first dozen of claret having vanished rather rapidly, the chairman deemed it necessary to call the attention of the members to the peculiar object of the meeting, which the gentlemen present, he reminded, was for the purpose of deciding the fate of the various contributions sent, during the two preceding months, by the correspondents of " The Day," and intended by them for insertion in that periodical. He recommended that The Spectacles and The Antiquary should be appointed to act as grand inquisitors, and that the rest of the Council should perform the part of independent Jurymen—(applause.)

A preconcerted signal having been made to the Attendants, they immediately withdrew, and in a short time they returned bearing our Letter Box.

The inquisitors stood on each side, grimly smiling, the lid was slowly opened, and the following letter was immediately read :—

To the Editor of The Day.—Sin,—I am one of a large number of frieuds to literature, who associate for the purpose of encouraging it, as well as getting information to ourselves. We regularly read a secondhand copy of The Day, price one half-penny, and it

would gratify the whole of us, were you kind enough to insert the inclosed Essay, "On the too Profuse Payment of Literary Productions, by a Member of the Save-all Club." I am also directed to say, our subscription as second-hand readers will be withdrawn, if this Essay be not inserted.—Your obedient servant, Isaac Newton.

Editor.Corpo delta Santa Maria Maggiore f— Another two-farthing Maceetias. I thought our publisher's subscription list had been already thoroughly purged of such friends. What return, gentlemen, do you propose making to the writer for this mark of his distinguished patronage?

The Antiquary.—I beg leave to propose that we inflict on him the highest punishment of our ancient law.

Verdict of Council.—Worried at a stake and burnt.

The next paper opened, was entitled " Maria, a Tale."—The penmanship was of a feminine character, but the signature indicating a male authorship, it was concluded, that the admirer of Maria was a sentimentalist of the first water.

Harley—If you have tears, prepare to shed them now!

Omnes—Our handkerchiefs are all ready.

Easel.—Mr. Spentacles, can ye lend me an ingan, for there's no a drap in my e'e the day.

Spectacles.—Shall I read then you a few lines before you pass your verdict?

Editor.—What! Sir—did you ever know the Council of Ten award an opinion from merely reading the title of an essay, or the title page of a book.

Spectacles -( Reads.)

"Maria was beautiful. Too beautiful alas! for the repose of my feeble fluttering heart. Yea! Maria loved me, and I loved Maria!

Easel, (raising himself from a reclining position.) That 'ill no doe—beauty is but a comparative term. We manna tak' charms on the word o' a bliu' man. "A blin' man's wife needs nae painting."

Council.Sus. per coll.

The next article was entitled " Dunder's Delusion," and was subscribed, "An Ancient Epicurean." It thus began :—

"Dundee and his family were comfortably seated by a blazing fire, one night in November, when tap! tap! tap! was heard sharply and suddenly at the door—but, ere Dunder had laid aside his pipe, the door was rudely pushed open, and a stranger appeared. Silently he entered the room, sat down on Dunder's chair: placed his feet upon the grate, and began to puff away most violently, with the pipe which Dunder had abandoned. But what astonished Dander most was, that all at once he felt that he had lost the use of his tongue, and when he looked to his better half, he observed, that neither her lip nor tongue was in motion, a circumstance, that had not occurred before, for twenty years. The stranger wore it cocked hat and tye, was highly powdered, and kept nodding his head to a most extraordinary tune, which Dunder thought he had once heard before, as he travelled through a dark wood by himself, on a predatory excursion. As the stranger continued to puff, puff, puff, the room gradually tilled with a thick smoke. The stranger occasionally turned his head round quietly, gazed for a moment in our host's face, gave three loud laughs, aad continued to puif, puff. But Dunder was provoked beyond measure, when he saw him seize a flask of wine that was to have accompanied, and washed down his own supper; and the stranger nodding to Mrs. Dunder, who returned the politeness, then looked to Dunder, and, laughing three times, emptied the bottle in a moment. 'In the name of the virgin!' cried Dunder, recovering his breath—when the stranger roared hideously, leaped up, sprung through the ceiling, and the aperture, through which he made his exit, is still shown as a curiosity, leaving the mark of a cloven foot, which retains a sulphurous and offensive odour.—

Eight of the Council.—Insert this story most assuredly.

The Doctor It shall not be inserted, as I shall

certainly be considered as the author.

Eight of the Council.—What of that?

The Doctor.—Nothing, gentlemen, provided you allow me to insert in the newspapers, that the author of the "Confessions of a Burker" has not, and never had, any connection with the story from the German, entitled, "Dunder's Delusion."

Editor.—Balderdash I Was I not the author of the letters of Malachi Malagrowther, usually ascribed to Sir Walter Scott? and, Good heavens! did he endeavour to undeceive the public upon the subject?

Spectacles.—The next in rotation, gentlemen, appears to be in verse, it is entitled,


As the Did an' his dame,

Ae nicht were frae hnme,
A Ghalst frae this warld, did tick at their door.

A wee devil did answer

An' roar'd " what d'ye want Sir?"
"I want," quo the Ghalst "just tae rank in your core."

"The gudeman's frae bame, man,
The gudewife's the same, man:
Tae admit ye mysel' is against their commauna,

Sae slip your wa's back;

An' our Cork, when he's slack,
Will gie ye a hint when he's takin on han's.

The Ghaist turn'd his heel

Without sayin' fareweel,
An' sneak'd awa back wi' his thumb in his jaw;

Thinking 'twas a hard case,

That in sic a warm place,
A puir Ghastie shou'd get sic a cauld coal tae blau:

Now, let some folks reflect

Upon this disrespect,
An' look e'er they loup, whar their landing's tae be;

For it seems there is reason

Tae tak tent o' their wisen,
Since the Deils on the shy, and their frien's ca' them fee.

Easel.—That's real double-distilled nonscence; and I propose it be put on the fire wi' a wee hair o' flour o' brumstane about it, to mak a blue low.

Omnes.—A greed.

Easel.—Feich! what a smell—I never see brumstane, gentlemen, without thinking o' Devils, Bunibees or Hielanmen.

Uncle Duncan.—What did you'll spoke about Highlandmen just now Mister Easdale? I can tell you, Mister Easdale, that I've known to my own knowledge a petter man than you, as proud as Lusifer, because he was a Highlandman's bastard. Now, Mister Easdale, pit tat in your pouch, and tak it for your morning.

Easel.—They say they're scant o' news that tell's his father was hanged; and I think they wad be as scant o' a connection that wad claim a Hielan yen. Man, do I no ken them? hae I no seen the lazy deevils hurklin about the peat fires o' Aberfoil, huntin what-de-yeca'ts, the only thing they seem tae be gude for? Gore, lad, ye manna speak to me about Hielan folks. I ken them owre weel.

Uncle Duncan.—All true Highlandmen don't fear being kent, and weel kent too; but it appears to me that you are either too well kent, or not kent or known at all, when you was obliged to hurkle in with the dregs of our peoples. If it was to see " what did you'll ca'ts," that you wented to the Highlands, I think you made a fool's errand of it; for it appears, to my suspicions mind, that you would have seen a great many more if you had stayed at home. And for you, Mister Easdale, to abuse the ancientest people in all the terrestrial territory of this Globular world, shews me that you are either a very ignorant, or a very malicious personage.

Easel.—O, by the Hoky, frien' Duncan, ye needna get on yer high horse, I'm no to be done! I ken them owre weel. And what's their antiquity? Gore, man, what is't? They cam into the kintra as rats

come into a ship, naebody can tell whan, and naebody can tell frae whar! And what gude hae they dune tae the kintra? What hae they invented? Naething but the tartan, and they pretend they took the idea frae the rainbow! high flight, by the Hoky! It's a pity but Colley had a gravat—rainbow! It's roair reasonable to suppose they took the hint frae their ain maizled shanks; it's there the clans got the different sets o' their tartan. Man, dinna talk to me; I'm no to be done!

Uncle Duncan.Od dam'ortabaestmoiseach, Dam'ort a each na diabhoil!

EaseL—Ye may " each and deol" awa' as lang's ye like, I'm no to be done.

Editor.—Gentlemen, I beg you will allow the busiof the evening to proceed.

Uncle Duncan.—Gentlemen, with all respect to the Editorial chair, I will just give a promulgation to the observation, that it's not myself that wishes to interrupt the business of the evening, but, when I see Mister Easdale turning up his nose to the roof, and screeches like a water kelpy against a people that's an honour and an approbation to the British nation, both by land and sea, I canna help my plood from coming to the boil; there's no body that hears me just now but what has a high respect for Highlanders, and I would just advise Mister Easdale to read what Sir Walter Scott says about them, before he makes any more of his foolish remarks.

Easel.—Ou, man, is that a' ye can say?—Sir Walter has wasted a great deal o' fine writing about them— but what's that? Man, what is't? It's just like throwing lavender water on a—

Uncle Duncan.—On a what Mr. Easdale? Od, Dam'ort, put a mouth upon that word if you dare—

Easel.—Daur! I'm no obliged tae daur ony thing about it—I tell ye frien, Duncan, I'm no to be done man, I'm no to be done.

Editor.—Silence, gentlemen, and let the business proceed.

The next paper was entitled an original anecdote of a certain tall divine, not a thousand miles from Glasgow, who met one of his parishioners; and the fellow, not touching his hat, the divine told him he was the head of the church. "Indeed, Sir, I really took you for the steeple," said the rustic; but, as this was condemned by the Council as a regular Joe Miller, it was placed upon the live coal without delay. Four epigrams, as pointless as a broken file, now followed, and found the same resting place. An essay "On Virtue," which, as well as the next paper, was intended for the Saturday's number, was condemned for commencing with the expression, "Happiness is the object which all men pursue," and burned very cheerily beside what the writer characterized as a serious trifle in verse of his own composition, entitled the "Good Man's Rest," and which thus began—

Night is the time for rest;

How sweet when labours close,
To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose.

But the Council agreed that, if the above were, really, original, Montgomery must have stolen it from our correspondent, and that "The Day" could not, and would not, interfere, until the question of property were settled.

The next paper that was opened ran as follows:—

Mr. Editor, I am a constant reader of The Day, and will be obliged by your throwing a little Day-light upon my history of the Theatre, which is at present in the press, your insertion of the annexed, will oblige,—A Subscriber.

"Mr. P. Q. K.'a history of the Theatre is likely to cause a great sensation in the literary world. We have had a peep at the work, and can safely say, it will add not a little to the fame of its talented author. As a limited number of copies are to be published, an early application to the respective booksellers is earnestly recommended."

Council of Ten.—This is the "puff direct:" try it by the fiery ordeal.

The conversation was here interrupted by the en

trance of a waiter bearing a silver salver with a neatly folded letter upon it. "Another communication," exclaimed the Editor, and, opening the paper, he read as follows:—

Sir,—Should you consider the following little Poem worthy of insertion, by giving it a corner in your paper, you will truly oblige a constant reader of The Day, and warm admirer of its merits.

C. N.

Edin. Thursday, 23d February.

Council.With one voice.—C. N.! C. N. I Is that a communication from the eloquent old man whose harangues delight the ears of the listening Ambrosians?

The Editor.—I shall read, and you shall judge.

"Margretta lov'd! whene'er the sky

It's starry eyes resign;
I'll give thee to another's arms,
And cease to call thee mine."

Poetical Critic—Stop, that is not from Christopher North.

The poetical critic was then called on to give in his report, which was as follows :—

"During the last month, the poetry put into my hands has been of a superior order, and more correct in its measures and quantities, than any I have formerly inspected. It has also assumed a serious cast, and is principally intended for your Saturday's number. Some exceptions, however, as may be supposed, have occurred, and love has not yet lost his dominion over several of your correspondents of either sex. The first piece I recommend to your notice, is stated to be a translation from the Italian, although its British origin is evident enough."

How bright, the maid that won my heart,

I vainly try to say—
An angel formed in every part

To suit a poet's lay!

But, if you bless me with a smile—
If in those eye* I see.
One look of love, 'twill ease my toil;
For, sweetest girl, why all the while,
The maid I love is thee I
Council of Ten.—Burn it.

Poetical Critic.—Here is another production from that hot-bed of poetical genius, Paisley. There are more verses manufactured in that town than in any other of the British empire. It has now, in fact, become as famous for stanzas as for silks :—

Cupid's Frolic.

Wee Cupid one day on frnlicing bent;

Slung on his bow and his gilded quiver;
Through his wide domains a laughing he went,

A sportsman keen on the game as ever.
He pointed a bachelor, three score and twain,

Shot him in the back with it long strong arrow,
Which punctured his heart with a pleasing pain,

Dividing asunder the joints and the marrow. Easel.—It's dounricht havers. The body has nae notion whatever of Heathen Mythology, or the harmony of composition. What sense is there in sic a bluter o' words about naething? Cock-a-leerie-law, surely it maun be written by some flesher's apprentice. Into the fire with it—into the fire with it. Sic stuff is eneuch to gar any man of taste tak' a skunner, or the cholera.

Verdict.—" Divided by the joints, and fried in its own marrow."

Poetical Critic.—Gentlemen, since you judge thus, I feel confident you will be kinder to the following, which, if I mistake not, some of the gentlemen present have seen before:

What is my lady love?

Pure as the morninge,
When the younge sunne aboove

Greene hilles adornyng.
Pure as the fountaine

That Howes to the river.
Ladye love, ladye love,

Love thee for ever.

Where goes my ladye love?

Throwe sweete boweres straying,
Where, in the sun-beams,

The younge aylphes are playing.
Breathe of her gentle breath,

Happy deceiver,
Ladye love, ladye love.

Love thee for ever!

Calme at a summer cloude,

Art thou in bearinge!
Grand as an autumne noode,

Forest trees tearing!
Smile on mee, ladye love,

Leave thee! oh, never!
Lady love, lady's love,

Love thee for ever.

Council.—Recommended that its author should amend and return it.

Spectacles.—The next, gentlemen, is " an Epigram:" here it is—


When S cross'd in Charon's boat,

No fare was given, no fare was sought—
Charon would not have been so civil,
But he mistook him for the devil.

Easel.—Aye, aye; tary breeks pay nae fraught. Weel, gentlemen, ye may keep that to yoursels, for I'll no claim it for ony o' my frien's.

Editor.—(Shutting his eyes and shaking his head.) —Gentlemen, I do most decidedly and deliberately object to this piece, as being too personal.

Easel.—Hou—Mr. Editor, nane o' yer whigmaleeries; there's neither name, trade nor profession hinted at; od, if the cap does na fit ye needna pit it on, and, if you're no gaw'd, ye needna fling. Gore man, ye'r like the wife wi' the muckle nose, ye tak' every thing tae yourself.

Editor (Colouring up.)—Mr. Easel, I hope you

don't mean to say, that the Epigram applies to me more than to any of the company.

Easel.—Company, Sir! I didna think it applied to ony o' the company, but since ye speak o' the company, od, I think we're a' Jock Tamson's bairns, a' much about much, as the auld yin said to the witch; and, though the deil were gettin his han'-wale o' us at nicht, I dinua think he wad be muckle ta'en up wi his luck in the morning.

Spectacles.—This is, really, a foolish discussion, gentlemen; and, to bring it to a conclusion, I propose that the Epigram that occasioned it, be committed as a peace-offering to the flames.


Spectacles.—More verses gentleman. Here's what I suppose, we are to consider, if you'll excuse the bull, a Lowland-Highland song.—(Reads.)

Will't tbou go, mo laugh geal,
Mo laogh geal, mo laogh geal,
Will't thou go, mo laogh geal,

And roam the Hielan mountains.
I'll be kind, as kind can be,
I will daut thee tenderlie,
In my plaid or on my knee,

Among the Hieland mountains.

O, will't thou go mo laogh geal, &c

Heather beds are saft and sweet,
Mo laogh geal, mo laogh geal,
Love and ling will be our meat,

Amang the Hielan mountains.
And when the sun goes out o' view
O kisses there will be nae few,
Wi usquabae and bonach dhu,

Amang the Highland mountains.
O will't thou go, &c.

Neither house nor ha hae I,
Mo laogb geal! mo laogh geal,
But heather bed and starry sky,

Amang the Hieland mountains.
Yet in my lee you'll lye fu snug,
While there is neither free nor bug,
Shall dare to nip your bonny lug,

Amang the Hielan mountains.
O will't thou go, &c.

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