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troop of harpies, with the discreet lady at their head, fly upon you, with open mouth and uplifted hands, and all the gesticulation and expression which might properly accompany an outburst of indignant remonstrance, but which, in this case, is a kind of dumb thunder, ending all in the awful monus;, liable—wheesht! Then, there is an oiling of doors, and a throng of women going through the house in their stockings, or at most in what are called carpef-shoes, and a whispering and breathing of wheesht! for many days, till at last, through very contagion, you yourself become as timid as a tit-mouse, and almost forget the sound of your own voice. Then the mysterious old woman, how beautifully she manages everything! Her out-goings and her in-comings are all most becoming and composed. The flame which you see her occasionally sending over a plateful of brandy for the sick-room, is not more gently lambent than her own pace. You see her a few yards off addressing herself to some underling, and, although you hear not a whisper nor a breath, except, perhaps, the ever interjected wheesht, to your surprise her language appears to be comprehended by the person spoken to, and lo and behold it is immediately acted upon.. The very children, albeit unaccustomed to the reign of silence, are overborn and dashed down by the awful influence of the everlasting wheesht, and are observed crawling, like so many kittens, through a suite of apartments, where they erst performed gallopades of the most outrageous description. If you happen to take a peep into the sick-chamber, you see the mysterious woman standing over the bed, with the air and gestures of an inspired Pythoness, pointing to distant bottles and boxes, and doing every thing, speech excepted, to make herself understood. If the wrong bottle or box be touched by the servant, she writhes her whole body and countenance in an agony of dumb negation; but, when the right one is pounced upon at last, she suddenly relaxes into approval, and her agonies cease. Suppose that the patient at last" departs," the stillness of the household is not remitted, in consideration of there being no longer any one to be disturbed. It rather becomes more deep and solemn than ever. There is still the same carpet-shoeing as before—the same ejaculating of wheesht. The house begins to look like an absolute sepulchre, and the mysterious woman, like some marble and unspeaking cherub, planted to guard it. She takes a leading hand in the melancholy duties paid to the dead, and is always able to recommend a person who makes grave-clothes—Mrs So-and-so—living in some close in the Old Town, first stair, fifth door up. She can even do something in the way of mournings for the survivors; the children will require this, and the servants that; so much crape for this one's hat; so much black ribbon for that one's bonnet. Even after all these matters have been arranged by her friendly intervention, she does not yet depart. She must see after the wine and cake at the funeral, and take care that every thing is managed with decency, and, above all things, quietly. At last, when all is over, she soofs out at the door, with a strange rustle of silk, as if she were saying, and saying for the last farewell time, the oft-repeated shibboleth of her kind— Wheesht 1"

Tail's Edinburgh Mag,


I tiAe naebody now—I hae naebody now

To meet me upon the green,
Wi' her light locks waving o'er her brow

And joy in her deep blue een; .- .Wi' the Baft sweet kiss, an' the happy smile,

An' the dance o' the lightsome fay.
An' the wee bit tale o' news the while

That had happen'd when I was away.

I hae naebody now—I hae naebody now

To clasp to my bosom at even;
O'er her calm sleep to breathe the vow,

An' pray for a blessing from Heaven;
An' the wild embrace, an' the gleesome face,

In the morning that met mine eye:
Where are they now? where are they now?

In the cauld, cauld grave they lie. i

There's naebody kens—there's naebody kens,

An' O may they never prove,
That sharpest degree of agony

For the child of their earthly love!
To see a flower in its vernal hour

By slow degrees decay;
Then softly aneath in the arms of death

Breathe its sweet soul away.

O dinna break, my poor auld heart,

Nor at thy loss repine;
For the unseen hand that threw the dart

Was sent from her Father and thine.
Yes, I maun mourn, an' I Will mourn,

Even till my latest day;
For though my darling can never return,

I shall follow her soon away.

Hoc a.


Sav, sweet Carol! who are they

Who cheerly greet the rising day?

Little birds in leafy bower;

Swallows twitt'ringon the tower;

Larks upon the light air borne;

Hunters roused with shrilly horn;

The woodman whistling on his way;

The new-waked child at early play,

Who barefoot prints the dewy green,

Winking to the sunny sheen;

And the meek maid, who binds her yellow hair,

And blithely doth her daily task prepare.

Say, sweet Carol! who are they

Who welcome in the evening gray?

The housewife trim and merry lout,

Who sit the blazing fire about,

The sage a-conning o'er his book ,

The tired wight iu rushy nook,

Who, half asleep, but faintly hears

The gossip's tale hum in his ears;

The loosen'd steed in grassy stall;

The Thames feasting in the hall;

But most of all, the maid of cheerful soul,

Who fills her peaceful warrior's flowing bowl.

Joanna Baillie.


I Sat with one I love last night, I heard a sweet, an olden strain,
In other days it woke delight,— Last night but pain!

Last night I saw the stars arise,

But clouds soon dimm'd the ether blue, And when we sought each other's eyes,

Tears dimm'd them too.

We paced along our favourite walk,
But paced in silence broked-hearted,

Of old we used to smile and talk—
Last night we parted!

Oh! grief can give the blight of years, The stony impress of the dead,
We look'd farewell through blinding tears, And then Hope fled!


u Si tu es pot ile chtuubre, tant pig pour toi."—VOLTAIRE.

Heaeditaav honours are, certainly, the most rational of human devices. It was an excellent idea to suppose that a man propagated his virtues to the most distant posterity. Few notions have succeeded better in keeping the world in order. In fact, it was the best method of granting to the multitude the inestimable gift of a perpetuity of dependence. Had the idea stopped with the King or chief magistrate, it would not have been half so beautiful, or a hundredth part so useful. So far, a reason for the custom is obvious to the most superficial. Hereditary distinction, it is said, preserves a people from the wars and tumults that might arise from the contests of elective distinction. Very well—I do not dispute this assertion—it is plausible. But Dukes and Earls?—if their honours were not hereditary, would there be contests about them .' The world suffers itself to be disturbed by individuals wishing to be Kings, but it would not be so complaisant to every man that wished to be a Lord. "On ne desarrange pas tout le monde pour si peu de chose," we should not have wars and discords, as the seeds of that sort of ambition. We do not, then, grant hereditary honours to these gentry as the purchase of peace—we do not make them as a bargain, but bestow them as a gratuity. Our reasons, therefore, for this generosity, are far deeper than those which make us governed by King Log to day, because, yesterday, we were governed by his excellent father, King Stork—so much deeper, that, to plain men, they are perfectly invisible. But a little reflection teaches us the utility of the practice. Hereditary superiority to the few, necessarily produces hereditary inferiority to the many -and it makes the herd contented with being legislatively and decorously bullied by a sort of prescriptive habit. Messieurs the Eels are used to be skinned—and the custom reconciles them to the hereditary privilege of Messeigneurs the Cooks.

"As it fell npon a day."

There is a certain country, not very far distant from our own: in a certain small town, close to the metropolis of this country, there once lived a certain young lady, of the name of Laura. She was the daughter and sole heiress of an honest gentleman—an attorney-at-law and was particularly addicted to novels and falling in love. One day she was walking in the woods, in a pensive manner, observing how affectionate the little birds were to each other, and thinking what a blessing it was, to have an agreeable lover—when, leaning against an elm tree, she perceived a young man, habited in a most handsome dress that seemed a little too large for him, and of that peculiar complexion—half white, half yellow—which custom has dedicated to romance. He wore his long, dark locks sweeping over his forehead—and fixing his eyes intently on the ground, he muttered thus to himself—

"Singular destiny!—fearful thought! Shall I resist it ?—shall I fly? No! that were unworthy of the name I bear! For four hundred years my forefathers have enjoyed their honours—not a break in their lineage—shall I be the first to forfeit this hereditary distinction? Away the thought!"

The young gentleman walked haughtily from the tree, and just before him he saw Miss Laura, fixing her delighted eyes upon his countenance, and pleasing herself with the thought that she saw before her an Earl Marshall, or a Grand Falconer at the least. The young gentleman stood still, so also did the young lady—the young gentleman stared, the young lady sighed. "Fair creature!" quoth the youth, throwing out his arm, but in a somewhat violent and abrupt manner, as if rather striking a blow than attempting a courteous gesture.

Full of the becoming terror of a damsel of romance, Laura drew herself up, and uttered a little scream. "What!" said the youth, mournfully, " do you, too, fear me?" Laura was affected almost to tears—the youth took her hand.

I shall not pursue this interview further—the young people were in love at first sight—a curious event, that has happened to all of us in our day, but which we never believe happens to other people. What man allows another man to have had any bonnes fortunes f Yet, when we see how the saloons of the theatres are filled by what must once have been bonnes fortunes, the honour must be confessed to be of rather a vulgar description! But what am I doing? Not implying a word against the virtue of Miss Laura. No, the attachment between her and the unknown was of the most Platonic description. "They met again and oft;" and oh, how devoutly Laura loved the young cavalier! She was passionately fond of rank:—it seldom happens in the novels liked by young ladies that a lover is permitted to be of less rank than a peer's son—smaller people are only brought in to be laughed at—odd characters—white-stockinged quidnuncs— fathers who are to be cheated—brothers to be insulted: in short, the great majority of human creatures are Russell-squared into a becoming degree of ludicrous insignificance. Accordingly, to Miss Laura, a lover must necessarily be nothing of a Calicot—and she rcflecte.1

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