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Berries, now by burn and brae,
Mo laogh geal, mo laogh geal,
Are sneet'ning in the simmer ray,

Among the Hieland mountains.
For thee the blackest I will pu,
And if they stain your bonny mou,
I'll bring it to its rosy hue,

Wi kisses' mang the mountains.

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

Your mither's dosin' at her wheel,
Mo laogh geal, mo laogh geal,
The boatie waits, then let us steal,

Awa tae the Hielan mountains.
Look cross the sea to Brodick bay,
The moon with silver paves the way,
Let's keep her path, wi' cauna stray,

'Twill lead us to the mountains.

Will't thou go mo loagh geal, &c

Easel.—Now, frien' Duncan, that sang just proves what I was saying; wba but a wild Hielandman would ever think of wheedlin' a young woman into the marriage state, by assuring her of the safety o' her lugs? Man, you're an awfu pack you Hielanders after a': uae wonder

Editor.—Mr. Easel, I must call you to order, I cannot allow you to indulge in these remarks.

Easel.—Weel, weel, Mr. Editor, I'll tak my mouth in my hand for a wee—but if that sang's puttin i' the fire, I maun hae a copy o't; "gude evening oats is gude mornin's fother;" " it may come of use as the cat said to the dead mouse." I hope to sing it at Uncle .Duncan's waddin yet.

Uncle Duncan.—I'm, certainly, obliged to you Mr. Easdale ; but I intend to invite none but gentlemen to my wedding; and your pretensions to that character, from what has come under my observations to-night, are very small; now, Mr. Easdale, I'm just telling that upon your face.

Easel.—Come, come, frien' Duncan, ye manna rin awa wi the harrows that way'; I'm just as good a man as you, and, may be better, if the truth were kent.

Uncle Duncan.—Petter's a pauld man's word; but, I can tell you, my father was just as worthy a gentleman as ever put foot upon heather, and, my mother was a lady, that no one could say to her, "black is the nose on your face."

Easel.—You'll be meaning black was the e'e in her head, I suppose. Man, Duncan, but you're an auld sneckdrawer.

Harley.—Really, gentlemen, this is not the conversation I expected to hear, at the opening of our letter box ; and I have to regret the absence of that respectful and dignified complacency of manner, which ought to grace the meetings of those, whose literary characters, the public seem inclined to hold in some estimation.

Uncle Duncan.—Ah, Mr. Harley, it's yourself that can make a gentleman's observation.

Editor.—Let the business of the evening proceed.

Spectacles.—The piece which I have now in my hand, is entitled, " An enquiry into the origin and antiquity of the Highland clans, particularly, the M'Arthurs, the Grants, and the Munroe's."

Uncle Duncan.—Now, gentlemen, this is a subject worth all true gentlemen's considerations, because it embraces, as it were, the very origin of gentlemen. My mother was a Munroe, and I'll tell you what she told me about their genealogy, before you read the paper; and, I'm sure, if the author is a man of good sense, and proper understanding of the matter, he'll no put a contradiction upon my mother.

Easel.—That's tae say, he'll no ca' her nose black.


Uncle Duncan.—Many thanks upon you, Mr. Editor. Well, you must know, that the word, Monroe, in our gaelic phraseology, means to put water on a wheel; and the Munroe's were a respectable family in the Highlands, long before the Roman Invasions, but they were not called Munroes then, because they had not put the water on the wheel then; well, how they



came to put water on the wheel, as my mother, decent woman, told me, was just this—at that great battle when the Scots King Caractacus was taken prisoner, a gentleman of the name of Monroe was one of his generals, but he was not called Monroe then, because he had not put the water on the wheel then. Well, when Caractacus was flying away in his chariot from the Romans, General Munroe was running along side of his chariot, but he was not called General Monroe then, because he had not put water on the wheel then. Well, from the great velocity of speed at which the chariot was flying, one of the wheels took fire, and nearly set Monroe's kilt in a great inflammation, but, as I said before, he was not called Monroe then, because he had not put water on the wheel then. But, my faith, he was not long about it; for he was a general of great presence of mind, and, in a moment of time he put the water on the wheel, and out went the bleeze, and the chariot continued driving away. But what would you have of it, General Monroe, for he was general Monroe now, had not observed that the other wheel of the chariot was in flames too, and down the chariot came, and a Roman soldier came up and catched Caractacus by the cuff of the neck, and the honest man, the decent worthy King that he was, turned round to the general. "General, general," says he, " if you had put water on both wheels this would not have happen."

Editor.—Gentlemen, I propose that this communicaion, be put into the hands of the Antiquary.

Omnes.—A greed.

Enter Waiter Gentlemen, there's a servant with a

lanthorn waiting for Mr. Duncan

Uncle Duncan.—Well, gentlemen, that's our Floree come for me—od, I did not think it was so late; here, waiter, help me on with my great coat, like a decent lad, and, gentlemen, I'll just take a glass o' prandy to keep away the Choler a Morpheus. Your good health, and good night, gentlemen, all of you that pe gentlemen, I'm na inclined to make many exceptions (nodding to Easel.)

Easel.—We'll a' be gentlemen here, frien' Duncan, as soon as you've drawn the door after you, so tak' that on the top of your brandy.

Uncle D.—A d— you, your no worth a gentleman's foot-notice.—(Exit Uncle Duncan, with an indignant snort.)

Easel.—Weel, that's a clavering auld idiot. By the hokey, I think his back's the best o' him, and that's a cordial.

Harley.—Mr. Easel, I cannot but help feeling much dissatisfied with your reiterated attacks upon the worthy old man who has left us, he has his peculiarities, it is true; but you should remember that he has served his King and country in an honourable and becoming manner. He is, also, to be met with in the first circles of society.

Easel.—Ou that's a' very fine, Mr. Harley. I'm tae be met in the first circles sometimes myself, and wad be there aftener if I would condescend to the fitlicking tricks o' our frien.'

Harley.—Not at all, Mr. Easel, as to "fit-licking," as you call it, it is in perfect keeping with that natural politeness, peculiar to the Highland character, which induces them to speak with a tender and delicate consideration of the infirmities of their fellow-creatures.

Easel.—Ou aye, Mr. Harley, great stots in Ireland. But od, man, just look at the pride o' the creature to have his servant coming to a tavern for him with a lanthorn—'od I'm just as gude a man as him, but deevil a lanthorn would come for me if I were to sit here for a blue moon, unless it were a police yen, and these are attentions, Mr. Harley, that I am nae way kidgy about.

Enter Waiter.Supper waits in No. 5. (Exeunt Omnes.)







A tXnmrr forenoon, towards the close of the summer of 1826, found me on board a steam-boat at the Broomielaw, bound for Dunoon. I had been pretty tolerably fagged for sometime previous, and was now as happy at my release, and as full of animal spirits, as a school boy, when he finds himself freed from his irksome task, and the ever-threatening rod of the pedagogue.

We soon left Gourock; and Dunoon, with its rocky shores and its prettily situated church, is rapidly drawing near. The small boat comes out for us; it is rather crowded; yet, after a great deal of noise, and a little alarm, we are safely landed. There are warm shakings of hands on the shore, and earnest enquiries after health ; but I am off from them all as quickly as possible, and away to the bay, east of the village, where bright eyes, and a kind heart, await my coming.

Reader ! wert thou ever in love? Most likely thou hast been, and probably thou couldst live upon it, as some are said to have done. But so could not I. Though I have felt the enthralling influence of woman's gentle sway, as much as any, and, in my time, have been scorched by the bright rays from a soft blue eye ; yet, have I never allowed it to interfere with my appetite; nor, on the present occasion, believe me, did it do so. However, dinner is over, one tumbler is discussed, with the old gentleman, her father, and Mary, the gentle Mary, is preparing for a walk. But, pray, I hear you ask, who is Mary? Aye I who is Mary? Indeed, thou shalt never know. She never can be any thing to thee, and, as for myself, I may never see her more.

I might tell you, no doubt, how devotedly I loved her —how often I have sat silently gazing on her blue, speaking, eyes—how, when I discoursed of love and happiness, I have felt the gentle pressure of her soft hand — how, once, she told me, the time she first became aware that I preferred her to all others: but why detail to you the particulars of all this ?. since it would only make me melancholy, and cause you to laugh. Besides, it would be entirely aside from my story, which was not intended to be about Mary, or about myself, but about old Neil Gray.

A boat and an hour or two's fishing were now proposed, instead of the walk Mary and I had at first intended to take. With her leaning on my arm, we set off for the beach, beneath the village. When there, the fishermen were absent, and a boat was not to be had. My eye, however, caught an old weather-beaten tar, who, I thought, might, possibly, be able to supply our wants. He was leaning against the corner of the inn, which stands a short way above the shore. A little man he was, as all good sailors usually are, and his countenance proclaimed that he had faced both storms and dangers. Apparently, in a musing mode, he gazed across the wide expanse of water which rolled away towards the west, and his small grey eyes peered out, anxiously, from beneath the penthouse of a sorely battered wax-cloth hat, which covered his iron-coloured hair.

We went up to him and enquired if he could proride us with a boat. He, slowly, turned round to see who addressed him, again cast his eyes across the sea,

towards the distant horizon, and then told us we could get a boat, but he would advise just not to go out that afternoon. "It is about to blow it gale," said he "and if yon would take my advice," and, here, he looked at Mary, "the lady will not go upon the water to-night." "Not that ould Neil Gray is a bit affeared; no, he has seen too much for that; but, the lady, your honour, isn't much accustomed, I take it, to the sea, and she will be better on shore." He looked kindly at Mary as he spoke, and I felt an interest in the old man, who seemed to think so differently from the herd of greedy Donalds, whose boats we had generally hired.

"You'll no catch no fush the day," said a Highlander, who had come up while we were talking to Neil. "Why do you think so?" said I. ■ Shut 'cause you'l met auld Shanet, as you'll come to the shore, and whan you'l do that, you'l never catch no fush," and away walked the Highland boatman. Mary, at first, seemed inclined to brave Neil's threatened dangers, but, she ultimately yielded to our persuasions, and we agreed to defer our fishing till the morning. The reason of the Highlander, too, was irresistible, and, no doubt, had its due weight in fixing our arrangement.

Having got into conversation with Neil, we asked him down to the house, at the bay, to get a glass of grog, and the garrulous old man, warmed by the liquor, began to chat away about his early days. "Aye, aye," said, he " it's more than forty years since I first left the shore, there, to go to sea. I mind it as well as if it were but yesterday, and a sorry day it was, for my poor old father. 'Neil,' said he, 'will you leave your old father at home, alone, when you know there's none to put his head in the grave, when you are gone?' Ah, your honour, it was no wonder he was sorry ; for, seven sons had gone to sea before me, and, at that time, four of them were dead, or drowned, in foreign parts; and, of the others, he had heard nothing, for many a day. They are all dead now, your honour, and old Neil Gray hasn't a relation in the wide world —none to care for him, but the old woman, his wife. Well, my father pled sore that I would stay at home, but, though I was sorry, I was wilful, and wouldn't yield. 'Father,' says I, ' it's of no use talking, the thing has been done, and it can't be undone; for I won't break my engagement; but, I'll come back, father, and when it pleases God to take you away, I'll lay your head in the grave, so there's no use in taking om' The old man wept sore at parting, and, so did I, but, the vessel I was engaged in was coming down the river, so I was obliged to leave him; and a boat, that was waiting, soon carried me on board of her. It was a main heartless thing to me, sir, you may be sure, when, as the ship flew through the water, the Gantocks there, and the Castlehill, began to disappear, and, when we lost sight of them, I thought my very heart would have burst with sorrow."

"But a young fellow can't take on long, and the strange sights I saw in the West Ingies soon brought me up, and I forgot for a time the grief at parting with my poor old father. A ship of war arrived in the harbour, where we lay, she wanted hands, and they made a small matter of taking a number of ours, and among the rest myself; for you see I was not a regular prentice, but had only engaged for a Toyage to see how I'd like it."

"Here was an end of all my hopes of home for many a long day, and many a long year passed over before I saw the Gantocks or the Castlehill again. The old man at home, I never saw more. Year after year we were knocked about the world in the old Thunderer, and many's the hard gale and bloody sight Neil Grey weathered. We were in the East and West Ingies, Merikay, and other outlandish parts; no rest for the Thunderer; but what vexed me worse than all was, that I got no tidings from home, altho' I wrote sometimes. For the life of me, I could not learn whether the old man was dead or alive. I wrote from England when the Thunderer was in port twice, but all to no purpose; because, before an answer came back, we had sailed to some distant country, and if a letter was sent, why it never came to hand. Howsomdever, at the long run, when our ship was knocking about the Mediterranean, a packet ship hailed us; she had letters for our ship, and among the rest there was one for Neil Grey. But when I read it, sir, I was quite downhearted. It was from an old acquaintance at home, one as had fished round the Gantocks with me when a boy; and it told me how the poor old man my father was dead and buried, and how much he sorrowed before his death, that there wasn't one of his eight sons with him, to lay his old head in the grave. Well, as I said, I was quite downhearted, thinking on his words when we parted, but it was all of no use, you know—what was done couldn't be undone."

"I had little heart for work that day, so I stood leaning on one of the guns looking to the sea, thinking of home, of him that was in his grave, and of times that I couldn't bring back, when our first lieutenant comes past, and he says to me, 'why, what's the matter with you Neil? you've got a letter from home, and your quite downhearted 'Then,' I says to him, 'your honour,' says I, 'I've got a letter from home, and my old father's dead, and he hadn't a soul that belonged to him, to lay his head in the grave.' « Well,' 'Neil,' says he, 'I'm sorry for what you say, but it's God's will, you know, and you mustn't take on or be downhearted; there's no use in it, Neil; what's done can't be undone; howsomdever,' says he, 'I'll order you a double allowance of grog, and you'll do no work to day, so keep yourself up, Neil, and you'll soon get over it.' Now, wasn't that kind of him your honour, to be so good to a poor fellow he saw had got bad news, and was quite down? Aye, he was the gentleman could feel for a sailor, and though he was an Englishman, he had a warm heart, as if he had been a natural born Scotsman."

"And why not," said I, for the first time interrupting the talkative old man.

"Aye why not your honour," said he, "I'm sure I know no reason why, only it's more naturaler you know to care for our own countryman, than either an Englishman or an Irishman, jist as one's heart warms to them again, afore any foreignder that ever was hatched. Though, for the matter of that, I've known many a good fellow in my time, that had been born in England and Ireland, but they couldn't help that, you know. It was their misfortune. But, as I was saying, I loved our lieutenant jist for all the world as if he had been my own father, and good reason I had; for he was kind to all man and boy, though he seemed to care for me more than all the rest, and I was always ready to do what he ordered, whether it could be done or not."

"But I find I'm spinning a rather long yarn, your honour, so I must haul close, and belay." "Not at all Neil," said we all: "take another glass of grog," said the old gentleman.

"And what has become of your old officer, Neil," said I, "is he still fit for service?" "Ah! your honour," said Neil, "he lies many a fathom down in the salt sea.

He was killed in an engagement which the Thunderer had in the West Indies, with a Mexican frigate, and a bloody affair it was; tho' our ould jack flew highest that day after all. Our lieutenant fell at my side, and I carried him down to the surgeon, but he could do nothing for him, except comforting him a little, poor soul. I had to leave him at the time, for I had my duty to attend to, but, when the business was done, I went down again to see how he was. He was still alive for he knew me, and called me faintly to him. 'I hope your honour will soon get the better of this turn,' said I. 'Never in this world Neil,' said he; 'life is fast going, and I'm glad you've come down to see me before I died.' I couldn't speak, let the consequence be what it might, but I knelt down at his side, and I prayed to myself as well as I could, that God would be kind to the poor gentleman, who had always felt so much for the distresses of a brother seaman. 'Neil,' said he again, 'open my shirt at the breast,' I did so, and I found a small piece of gold tied around his neck by a ribbon. A locker he called it, but it was no more like a seaman's loker, than my hat's like the Gantocks. 'Will you get that safely delivered to my mother?' said he; ' I'll do it myself if I live to get home,' said I; ' and if not, I'll give it to a sure hand, who will do it for me. Trust to Neil Gray, your honour.' 'Thank you Neil,' said he; 'and if you see my mother tell her,' said he, 'tell Emily, that I blessed them both with my dying breath.' 'Better not talk your honour,' said I—he never talked more. He became weaker and weaker, and I saw life was going fast. I held one of his hands in mine, watched him, and wiped his poor parched lips with a sponge soaked in vinegar, till his brave soul took flight to a better life, I hope, than ever he had, knocking about on board the old Thunderer."

After a short pause, Neil resumed his story. "The locker," said he, "I was determined to deliver with my own hand to the Leiftennnt's mother, for it should never be said that I had been careless in obeying the wishes of a dying seaman, cost what it would. I examined it one night, on the outside there was hair, fair hair it was, and twined with it was the dark hair of poor Mr. Willoughby. In the inside was the picture of a lady, an angel rather, your honor, for I've seldom seen any thing so very beautiful. I guessed it was the Emily he mentioned when dying. Well, when the Thunderer had got all made right after the action, we were ordered home with our prize, and a glad day it was for all on board, when we spread the canvass for old England. We arrived safely at Portsmouth. The Thunderer would be some time repairing before she would again be ready for sea, I got leave of absence to go home, but I determined first to pay a visit to Mr. Willoughby's mother."

"When I got to the Hall, as they called it, where the old lady lived, and a grand old house it was, with many a hall inside of it, I asked a grey-headed old gentleman, in black, if I could see her. He shook his head, asked me civilly in, but I saw that he was quite down-hearted. He told me that his lady could not be seen, she was so ill in consequence of the death of his young master. The tears fell fast down the old gentleman's cheeks as I told all; he blest me for my kind ness to his poor dear master; but I told him I had done nothing but my duty as a man, and what every true seaman would do for another. He said, he would tell his mistress, and let me know what she said. The old chap was very kind, and, as I was both tired and hungry, he let me want for nothing.

"After partaking of some refreshment, I was shown up to the old lady, and an elderly grand old lady she was, just fit to be mother to a brave seaman. The beautiful young lady whose picture I had with me, Emily Willoughby, the cousin of poor Mr. Willoughby, was also there. I can never forget her she was so pale and so lovely; so like an angel rather than a mortal woman. The tears fell from both their eyes fast and freely as I told them my story, and I assure your Honour, I never had more inclination to make a woman of myself than at that time, and I'm not sure if I didn't after all. Well, I gave them the locker, and they both pressed it; and they wept, and thanked me so, that I was glad to get out of the room for I couldn't stand it longer." The tears stood in Mary's beautiful eyes: her father puffed out the smoke violently, but Neil went on with his story.

"Well, after spending some days there, I set off for Scotland, and came back to see Dunoon. It was the first time I had been in it for fifteen years. I was now a boatswain, and had the power of prize-money, so I married the old woman that's now my wife, left the prize-money with her, and returned to my duty in the Thunderer. Well, Sir, at last I was discharged with a pension, and then I come to Dunoon to the old woman, and now I am laid up safe for the remainder of my life. I was back at the Hall since ; the old lady was dead, and Miss Emily was mistress of the whole. She pled hard that I would come and live there; but I can't, ma'am, "said I, for I must see the old Gantocks again, and lay my bones beside those of my old father. And the old woman, your honour knows, she could never have lived away from the Gantocks and the Castle Hill, more than myself. So Miss Emily has settled a pension on me too, besides what I get from the King; and I only wish that every seaman may be so well provided for at the end of his voyage, as ould Neil Grey."

Neil took his glass of grog, and, bidding us good night, walked away to the old woman who had been his wife, as he said, for so many years.

(From the German. J

Place not thy faith in thy friends, till thou hast put them to the proof—more numerous aro they at the table of the banquet, than at the portal of the prison.

A man had three friends, two of them he fondly loved, the third he cared not for, although, in attachment, he was the most sincere of them all.

Once upon a time, it happened, that he was accused of a heinous crime—unjustly indeed—yet, on the instant, he was unable to prove his innocence of the charge, and he exclaimed to his friends: "which of you, my friends, will accompany me to the seat of judgement, there to bear testimony to the purity of my actions, and to prove my innocence of this crime— come 1 oh, come! for appearances are against me, and the King waxeth very wroth."

And the first of his friends answered, and said, that he was busied with his merchandise, and therefore could not come; and the second accompanied him— but only to the door of the judgement hall; for, beholding the stern visage of the angry judge, he turned and he fled; but the third—he who had never been loud in his professions, or ostentatious in his offers of friendship, now undauntedly stood with him before the judgement seat of the irritated Prince, spoke for his innocent friend, and spoke so well, that the Judge dismissed him from the tribunal, and loaded him with his presents.

Man hath three friends here below. How do they comport themselves at the hour of death—when God calleth him away to his final account? Riches, the friend whom through life he had always esteemed the most, forsake him the first, and go not with him to the tomb. Friends and Relations attend his body to the grave perhaps, but there they leave him, and careless and unconcerned they return to their homes. His Deeds of Charity and of Mercy, his third friend—in health and vigour, alas! but too often forgotten and too much neglected—there attend him to the judge

ment seat of the Almighty, place themselves in his front, and at his side, plead his cause, palliate his faults, and (may we hope it?) obtain for him the pity and the favour of the Omnipotent Judge of All.


Mantles, though fashionable, are not so exclusively so as last month, many ladies appearing in silk or merino dresses, with Cachemire shawls; and others with pelisses, either of rich silk or Cachemire, trimmed with fur. Although sable is considered more elegant, there are various other kinds in favour, as grey squirrel, chinchilla and marten. In general the muff, tippet, and trimming of the dress corresponds, but some elegantly dressed women appear with all three different. This, however, is a whim which will not be generally copied.

Bonnets have changed only in their trimmings: a good many are now adorned with ribbons arranged in rosettes, which resemble heads of wild endive; or else disposed in bows without ends, which rise one above another, and are placed three or four together. There are also a good many trimmed with a single long, curled, ostrich feather, which being placed nearly at the back of the crown, partially encircles it, and falls over on the other side of the brim.

The most admired hall dresses are of crape or gauze, trimmed with a mixture of flowers and ribbons in the manner we are about to describe:—A light trimming, formed of ends of cut gauze ribbon, goes round the back and shoulders of the dress, and falls rather low over the sleeves; it is surmounted by a wreath of cockle shells, formed also of ribbon. A corkscrew roll of ribbon is disposed in the Egyptian style round the border, having in each compartment a light bouquet of flowers.

Flowers are employed almost exclusively to decorate ball coiffures, except at Court, where feathers, intermingled either with diamonds or other precious stones, are more frequently adopted. Fashionable colours are ponceau, ruby, vert d'acanthe, bird of paradise, some new shades of yellow brown; and for evening dress, rose, azure-blue and white.


LINES ADDRESSED TO CHILDE HAROLD. (By a Lady, during Lord Byron's life-time. J

O, Fortune! what avail thy smiles,

No smiles to Harold's cheek they bring;

O, beauty, cease thy blandish wiles;
For Harold, only, feels their sting.

O, nature! why on him bestow

Gifts, more than mortal minds adorn;

In vain for him thy roses blow;
For Harold, only, feels the thorn.

O, genius! why, with rays divine,
And magic power his soul illume;

In vain thy starry lamp may shine j
For Harold, only, feels its gloom.

Yet still one boon the Childe may claim,

A boon, to mortals, rarely given On earth, to hear his deathless fame,

And feel, at last, a ray from heaven.

Dear wayward Childe, I read, I weep,
And almost feel thy fancied woes;

Nay, even thy image, when I sleep,

Dwells in my dreams, and breaks repose.

But dream not of some Leman fair,
With snowy arms and eyes of blue;

Know, fifty summers o'er my hair,

And on my cheeks have blanched their hue,

Yet in my heart, nor pain, nor age,

I feel, tho' both have marked my brow;

When, gazing o'er thy witching page
With pleasure, never felt till now.

And, wert thou, Childe, a child of mine,
I'd soothe thee with a mother's love;

And pray—not to the tuneful Nine—
But to the blessed powers above.

That hope in heaven, and peace on earth,
And social bliss, may still be thine;

And feeling which, from conscious worth,
Can raise the soul to joys divine.

Then, Harold, strike again the lyre,
And pour sublime thy flood of song;

And let each chord thy genius fire,
As o'er its strings thou sweep'st along.

No gloomy thoughts of men's decay,
Shall, then, thy spotless pages soil;

But wreaths, unfading, crown thy lay,
And fame, immortal, bless thy toil.


Great alarm has been caused among the ladies of Glasgow, by the report that the gay and gallant 4th are about to be withdrawn from the society of this city, which they have now, for a considerable time, adorned by their presence. We hare no doubt that, while real testimonials of gratitude are awarded to this regiment for the correct and orderly behaviour of its privates during its sojourn among us, the handsome and spirited officers will not be permitted to depart without sighs from fair lips and tears from bright eyes. We only hope that en revanche for the breaking hearts which they will leave behind them, they will carry along with them the remembrance of our belles engraven upon their own hearts, and that, if they do not deprive our fashionable circles of any of their female ornaments, they will take with them pledges of affection, to be redeemed at some future period, when the calls of their service may permit them to obey a scarcely less imperious duty, and pay another visit to Glasgow.


Every individual, who has paid any attention to the study of

Hieroglyphics, will regret to hear that M. Champollion, member of the Academic des Inscriptions, bade adieu to this life, last week, at Paris, after a long and painful illness. By his death the scientific world sustains an irreparable loss. The obscurity of Egyptian History had only acquired sufficient intensity, to point to us the treasures which were concealed there, without enabling us to examine and render them available.


During the present session, the pious and learned President of this Society, the Bishop of Salisbury, has resigned the chair, in which he has sat since its foundation by his late Majesty. The reasons assigned were, his advanced age, and the probability of his being less in town than heretofore. The Council addressed a letter of grateful thanks to his Lordship, for his unwearied zeal and valuable services to the Institution ; and the temporary presidency devolved upon his Grace the Duke of Rutland, the first upon the list of vice-presidents. Having witnessed the labours of the most estimable Prelate, from the beginning to this time, we venture humbly to express our high admiration of the ability and finelytoned judgment with which he has throughout adorned his office.

February \st W. Sotbbey, Esq. in the chair. Mr. Hamilton read a memoir by Mr. Millingen, royal associate, on the origin of the Roman divinities. While many of the gods of ancient Rome retained their Greek names unchanged, others received appellations wholly different. This remarkable fact Mr. Millingen endeavours to reconcile with the acknowledged identity of the religious system of the Greeks and Romans. In a variety of learned remarks on the derivation of the names of the twelve principal deities of the latter people, as well as on those of many of the - gods of an inferior order, he shews that they were all alike of Greek origin; thereby confirming the identity above mentioned, and, by consequence, strengthening the existing testimony in regard to the Greek origin of the Roman race. A letter was read from Mr. S. Angell, containing B description of the ruins of one of the temples at Seliuus, in Sicily, in reference to a notice read at the meeting of January 4, relative to the subjects of several sculptured metopes, lately examined among those ruins, the existence of which was discovered by Mr. Angell, in the year 1823.

February 15/A.—W. R. Hamilton, Esq. in the chair. A memoir was read by Mr. J. P. Thomas, in which much light was thrown upon the moral and allegorical meanings of the fabulous mythology of Greece and Rome. Part of a memoir by the Rev. Dr. J. Jamieson, royal associate, was likewise read, on the earliest Scottish coins now extant. Wise, in his catalogue of the Bodleian collection, referring to those coins which by Anderson, in his Diplomata Scotia, have been assigned to Alexander and David, each the first of his name, has strongly expressed his doubts whether any of them go further back than to the age of William the Lion, who began his reign in 1165; for, observes that writer, those commonly given to Alexander I. and David I. were probably struck by Alexander II. and David II. This opinion, which is also maintained by Snelling and De Cardonnel, is combated, and, as it appears to us successfully, by Dr. Jamieson.


The Voice of the West Indies and the Cry of England, or Compensation or Separation considered, is in the Press.

Flowers of Fable, culled from the works of Epictetus, Croxall, Dodsley, Pope, Moore, Merrick, Dennis; with original transla

tions from La Fontaine, Krastcki, and others; selected for the Instruction of Youth, and embellished with engravings on wood,

is announced for immediate publication.


The remaining stock and copy-right of this well-conducted Miscellany were told in London, in consequence of the state of the copartnery by which it was carried on, at JE3428, 13s. Id. for a private individual, unconnected with the bookselling trade; for whom the work is to be published in future—in London by Whittaker and Co., and in Edinburgh by Constable and Co. The copyright belonged to Messrs. Hurst, Chance, and Co. four shares, Mr. H. Constable one share, and Mr. J. Aitken, the very able and efficient editor, one share. The past vols, were taken at eightpence. We have seen a small pamphlet with testimonials of the merits of Mr. Aitken (among others those of Professor Wilson, Mr. Lockhart, Mr. James, Mr. Motherwell, Mr. Charles Maclaren, Mr. Robert Chambers, Mr. M'Diarmid, &c) in the sentiments contained in which we take this public opportunity, from long observation of his taste and judgment, of expressing our entire concurrence. Should he resign the helm, it will not be easy to substitute an equally able steersman.—Lit. Gaz.


Benefits or Literature.—Literature, like Virtue, is its own reward, and the enthusiasm some experience In the incalculable and permanent enjoyments of a vast library, have far outweighed the neglect or the calumny of the world, which some of its votaries have received. From the time of Cicero, in his well-known oration for the poet Archias, Innumerable are the testimonies of men of letters of the pleasurable delirium of such researches; mat delicious beverage which they have swallowed, so thirstily, from the Circasan cup of literature. Richard de Bury, bishop of Durham, chancellor and high treasurer of England, so early as 1341, was so enamoured of his large collection of books, that he has expressly composed a treatise on his love of books, under the title of Philobiblion, a great effort for the times, and an honourable tribute paid to literature, in an age not literary.

Portrait Painting.—Lord Orford preferred an interesting portrait, to either landscape or historical painting. A laudscape, said he, however excellent in its distribution of wood and water and buildings, leaves not one trace in the memory. Historical painting is perpetually false in a variety of ways, in the costume, the grouping, the portraits, &c. and is nothing more than fabulous painting; but a real portrait is truth itself; and calls up so many collateral ideas as to fill an intelligent mind, more than any other species.

French Lotteries.—The ladies in France assist the poor occasionally by lotteries. Ths Countess of Bondy, lady of the Prefect of the Seine, had a lottery a week or two ago at her hotel, by means of which several works of fancy were disposed of amongst the contributors, which were wrought by some of the most lovely hands in Paris, including those of the Queen, and of the Princesses, her daughters. The contributions on the whole amounted to about A'IGO, and every subscriber won something of more or less value.


W« have been favoured with the Epistle of Umbra, and will be glad to hear from him more fully on a subject which he appears so competent to give an opinion. If he will turn to Mitchier, Miller and some of the more modern German Poets, he will find equally glaring proofs of German plagiarism from the English, as that which he has sent us from Kosegarten.

"T. O.'s" communication has been put into the hands of our Gaelic Critic.

"Spero's" Stanzas have been received, and will probably appear soon.

The first portion of "O. P. Q.'s" communication will be inserted, but the latter part will not do for us.

11 J. L.'s" verses do not come up to the standard of our Poetical Critic.

The Enigma of our Edinburgh correspondent '* C." will probably appear when other more important claims on our columns are answered.

fgf All communications for the Editor of " Thk Djt" are requested to be left with the Publisher, Mr. John Finlay, Yo, 9, Miller Street.

Published, every Morning, Sunday excepted, by John Finiat, at No. 9, Miller Street; and Sold by John Wylie, 97, Argyle Street; David Robertson, and W. R. M'piiun, Glasgow . Thohas Stevenson, and the other Booksellers, Edinburgh: DaVid Dice, and A. Gardner, Booksellers, Paisley: A. Lantc, -GreenockJ and J. Glass, Bookseller, Rot/isay.


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