The Statesmen, who preside at the helm, knew too well their duty to give the least information of their intentions. Not only the details were utterly unknown, but the general outline was as much kept in the dark as the most minute of the No shadings and fillings up. man could tell in what direction it went, or to what extent. That the great Towns would be endowed with the elective franchise, and that something would be done with some of the decayed Corporations-was, no doubt, confidently expected. Had any one, of known opiDions, shewn the least symptom of his satisfaction, or dissatisfaction with the measure, a slight degree of reflection would have led to a pretty accurate notion, at least of the extent to which it They knew their duty too well to allow any one individual of the prying parties to get even a momentary peep behind the curtain, &c. None could tell the extent of it. None knew how far the measure was to be carried. Whether large Towns, before unrepresented, were to be favoured by the extension of the franchise to them, whether rotten boroughs were about to be totally denuded of the privilege. So far well as the reserve on the part of any of those in the confidence in the prime movers, by evincing any symptom of uneasiness, might have given some idea of the extent it went, and have excited suspicion, if not disclosed the important secret. Nobody, however, knew whether it was extensive, moderate, or imperfect. P. S.-I might go on making many similar quotations, but I fear you will be sick enough with what you have got. So adieu, for the night. LITERARY NOTICE. THE WORKING MAN'S COMPANION.-The Physician, No. I.— CHOLERA. Charles Knight, London, 1832. Now that Cholera has actually made its appearance among us, the upper and middle classes of our inhabitants are thrown into a state of considerable alarm. Anxiety is depicted in many a countenance, wonted amusements are neglected, or engaged in with fear and trembling, the social meetings of friends, after the business and toils of the day are over, are dull and uninteresting. Whether in the street, the counting-house, or the parlour, the whole conversation turns upon the progress of Cholera, and the most approved means of preventing and treating it; and, although the same story may have been repeated twenty times to the same persons, yet, such is the strength of their evil forebodings, it is listened to with the most marked and breathless attention. Whoever has paid any attention to the subject, cannot fail to feel a dread at the visitation of that disease which has so unceremoniously launched thousands into a world of spirits; but we would ask, has it not happened, in too many instances, that this dread has been allowed to overstep the boundaries of reason, benevolence, and even of self enjoyment? We are afraid the strict seclusion which many families are adopting—the active preparations which others are making to flee into the country-the discontinuance of employment to those who have the misfortune to reside in, or near the affected districts-the desertion of innocent recreations-too So far as we can plainly tell us that this is, really, the case. judge, this illiberal and irrational dread has arisen from mistaken notions of the contagiousness of the disease, and the particuThat the Cholar kinds of person that it is most apt to affect. lera is not so contagious as the typhus fever, which, of late has so extensively and fatally prevailed in this city, may be learned from a very simple statement:-The Cholera has now affected above 3000 individuals in Britain, and, although it is a disease that requires the medical practitioner to visit those who are affected with it by night and day, to hang over them for a greater length of time to touch their bodies more frequently than in almost any other disease, yet there has been reported only a single case of its affecting practitioners. Compare this with typhus fever :-Since the 15th August, 1831, out of the 12 district surgeons of this city, four have been affected with fever, of which one has died, and the other three have had a most narrow escape for their lives. Now typhus requires only to be visited during the day-time-the practitioner needs not remain more than five minutes at the bedside, and the touching that is necessary is trifling indeed. This is a simple statement, but we think it every way sufficient for our purpose. If no person in this city thought of barricading their houses, of refusing to take in the work of the weavers of Calton and Bridgeton, of clouding the gaiety of social intercourse. Although typhus, the most contagious of diseases, was raging to such an extent, that, for several months, between 20 and 30 persons affected with it, were daily refused admittance into the Infirmary-why all this unmeaning and unmanly conduct about the invasion of Cholera, which is very far from being so infectious? Conduct which, by refusing to come in contact with the lower classes, and to furnish them with means to earn a subsistence, must add tenfold to the extent and virulence of the disease. There is another consideration which ought to lessen this dread, viz. :-Cholera does not attack persons indiscriminately; for it is only those whose mode of life is of a peculiar kind that it singles out as its prey. Those who are most addicted to intemperance in eating or drinking, who live in damp or ill ventilated houses, who keep their persons in a state of filth, who expose themselves. to the night air, who are ill clothed, and exhausted from any cause, When these are are most liable to be affected with the disease. the circumstances under which an attack may be dreaded, surely the middle and upper ranks of this city have little occasion for such an unbounded alarm, as they have it in their power to shun them all. By so doing, it fortunately happens, that no disagreeable restraints are imposed, but that enjoyment, arising from health and personal comfort, is the natural result. Viewing the disease in these aspects, let it not be said that any of us would forWe would sake the poor, who seem to be its devoted victims. blame no man for a regard to his personal safety-this is natural, but when this oversteps the limits which are warranted by circumstances, this over-regard assumes the appearance of heartless selfishness which has no other effect than to aggravate the distress of his suffering fellow-creatures who might be benefited by his assistance. A friend of ours informed us, of an extensive manufacturer in this city, who, being wondered at for giving employment to the weavers of Kirkintilloch, said, "What! do you think this is a time to act in such a way-to be adding famine to pestilence; I consider it every man's duty to be found at his post, We would like that this praiseready to do all the good he can." worthy example were followed by all, and that the apprehensions of danger which are so misplaced, were thrown aside, and that only active exertions were made to feed, clothe, and lodge the poor. We are led to make these remarks, after perusing the small tract which the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge has It is just published, and which stands at the head of this notice. so very moderate in its price, and so lucid and accurate in its information, that we think it ought to be in the possession of every one. The work in question contains a complete history of the disease, from its commencement in the East, down to its arrival in England. The symptoms, and the preventive and curative means are so plainly pointed out in it, that he who runs may read. MUSIC. FAREWELL WALTZES, composed by the late R. A. SMITH, during his last illness, and Dedicated as a Parting Memorial to his Friends. WE think it was Mozart who devoted his last hours to Music, and whose love of musical composition did not forsake him until the hand and the eye refused to do their office. Here are three Farewell Waltzes, written in circumstances nearly similar, and forming a melancholy, yet pleasing memorial, of their modest and meritorious author. The remembrance of R. A. Smith is now identified with Scottish song, and will not readily be forgotten, as long as our countrymen shall relish pure, simple and touching melody; while, we are happy to understand, his anthems have recently become popular, and, we are confident, wherever they shall be known, will add to the high character of their composer. But, a memorial not less honourable to Smith, will be more especially found in the bosoms of those who had the pleasure of sharing his friendship and of knowing his worth. We are happy to speak favourably of the Farewell Waltzes, more especially as we observe the object of the publication. In hurriedly looking over them, we recognise a favourite air gliding smoothly along in the first, some very effective modulations in the second, and, in the third, a very pleasing specimen of its peculiar style of music. We can heartily recommend the publication as a useful lesson for the young performer on the piano-forte, and as equally well adapted to accompany the gaieties of the ball-room. FOREIGN LITERARY INTELLIGENCE. Ir is intended to form an Ethnographical Museum at Paris, under the direction of the indefatigable Baron de Ferussac. The object of this establishment is to preserve from the ravages of time such memorials of the present nations of the world as are peculiar to them, in their arts, costumes, arms, buildings, &c. &c. Those nations in particular, that are in a savage state, or are but imperfectly advanced in the social scale, will form the chief object of attention, as, from the rapid extension of modern civilization, the manners and primitive character of such nations, or tribes, are daily losing their original features. A large building, divided into many distinct apartments, will be devoted to the objects of this institution, and will contain the specimens and memorials alluded to. A. M. DUSSUMIER, of Bordeaux, has made six voyages to India, and each time has brought back collections of rare and curious animals, which he has presented to the Museum of Natural History. None of his voyages, however, has equalled his last, and he has been fortunate enough to bring all his specimens safely home. Catalogues of the various collections have been drawn up by Messieurs Isidore Geoffroy, Valenciennes, and Victor Audouin, assistant naturalists to the Museum. The second volume of Iain's Repertorium Bibliographicum will shortly be completed, by the publication of the second part. LITERARY INTELLIGENCE. KIDD's Guide to the Surrey Zoological Gardens, with illustrative Engravings, by G. W. Bonner, is in the press. The Stranger's Pocket Dictionary to the Amusements of the Metropolis, with Engravings, by G. W. Bonner, is about to be published. It is proposed to publish, by subscription, twenty-eight of Capt. G. F. Lyon's Mexican Drawings, descriptive of the Scenery and People at and near the Mines of Bolanos and Real del Monte, in four numbers, at ten shillings each number. The drawings in each number to be eight inches by six inches in size, and to comprise a Vignette, four Views or Costumes, and two illustrative of the processes for extracting the Silver from the Ore. Bibliographia Inedita, or a Catalogue of Books not printed for Sale, with some Account of them, by John Martin, is in the press. MISCELLANEA. THE CHOLERA.-It has been remarked in Bohemia, that the animal kingdom has suffered great mortality since the prevalance of the Cholera in that quarter. Vast numbers of fish and hares, in particular, have been found dead, and these species have consequently been banished from all Bohemian tables. COBBETT'S OPINION IN 1797 OF THE SCOTTISH NATION.-They are a nation I respect above any other, except my own. For prudence, perseverance, integrity, courage, and learning, they are above all praise. And as to loyalty, by no means the least of virtues, the great body of the nation are far more loyal than their neighbours in the South.-[How often has this writer made declarations the very reverse!] A man, whose reputation is suspended, and who is conscious of his innocence, does not waste bis precious time in the pointing of a thought, or the rounding of a period. Truth needs no embellishment.-Cobbett. BONAPARTE IN 1795.-At that period of his life, Bonaparte was decidedly ugly. He afterwards underwent a total change : I do not speak of the illusive charm which his glory spread around him; but I mean to say that a gradual physical change took place in him in the space of seven years. His emaciated thinness was converted into plumpness, and his complexion, which had been yellow, and apparently unhealthy, became clear and comparatively fresh. His features, which were angular and sharp, became round and filled out. As to his smile, it was always agreeable the mode of dressing his hair, which now has such a droll appearance, as we see it in the prints of the passage of the bridge of Arcola, was then comparatively simple; for the muscadins, whom he used to rail at so loudly at that time, wore their hair very long. But he used to be careless of his personal appearance, and his hair, which was ill combed and ill powdered, gave him the look of a sloven. His little hands, too, underwent as great a metamorphosis as any other part of his body. When I first saw him, they were thin, long, and dark; but he was subsequently vain of the beauty of his hands, and with good reason. In short, when I recollect Napoleon entering the court-yard of the Hotel de la Tranquillité in 1795, with a shabby, round hat drawn over his forehead, and his ill powdered hair hanging over the collar of of his grey great-coat-that great coat which afterwards became as celebrated as the white plume of Henry IV.— without gloves, because he used to say they were a useless luxury, with boots ill made and ill blackened, with his thinness and his sallow complexion-in fine, when I recollect him at that time, and think what he was afterwards, I do not see the same man in the two pictures.-Mad. Junot. A letter from Palermo of the 3d ult. states that in the place of the volcanic island which had existed for some months between Sciacco and Pantelleria, and disappeared lately, is now seen a column of boiling water about twenty-four feet in diameter, rising from between ten to thirty feet above the surface of the sea, and exhaling a strong bituminous odour. UNNATURAL CHARACTERS IN FICTION.-No character can enter a human imagination which is not within the compass of Nature's possibility, but there is such in nature which has never entered the imagination. What imagination ever conceived any thing so outrageous as Jack Mitford's acknowledgement that his love of gin was so great, that if his soul were on one table and a gin-bottle on the other, he would barter the former for the latter? THE DAY, A MORNING JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, FINE ARTS, FASHION, &c. CARPE DIEM. GLASGOW, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1832. TALES, SKETCHES, AND TRADITIONS OF THE GAEL.-No. II. A MODERN HIGHLAND TALE. THE incidents mentioned in the following little sgeul, or tale of the mountains, may, perhaps, recall to the memory of some of the older inhabitants of the shores of Lochfine, a circumstance which, at one time, furnished a subject for fire-side commentary to many a domestic circle in the glens and corries of the country. From a deference to the feelings of any of the relations of the parties, who may still be surviving, the writer has, very judiciously, thrown some of the particulars into shade, and, by also introducing a few embellishments, the story, we conceive, may now be read without giving the slightest uneasiness to any individual: A "trip to the Highlands" is now such a commonplace occurrence, and possesses such a variety of pleasures and advantages, that I would incur the sneers of the "gentle readers," did I suppose they had not embraced them; but, among the various routes proposed to the eight-days' tourist, that by Inveraray and Oban, probably stands unrivalled. Inveraray, in itself furnishes attractions which few places can command, whether we contemplate its pleasant situation, or its past history in the one we see nature, with bounteous hand, lavishing charms with maternal distinction, while, in the other, we behold the nursery which reared a noble line of profound and fearless Statesmen, who disregarded the frowns of a Sovereign when the honour of their country was lightly treated. About a mile from the village, stands Dun-na-cuach,on a conical hill of considerable height, which, though steep to ascend, fully repays the toil of the visitor from its extensive and commanding view. He sees Lochfine at his feet, checkered with its bustling fishing crafts, the hills on either side possessing an agree able variation of heath and verdure-the village, with its whitened walls, reflected on the glassy surface of its mirrored harbour-the "castle," with its tasteful avenues and fragrant gardens emerging from among the giant trees with which it is surrounded. Ary, forgetting the noisy tenor of its earlier steps, sweeps along, calm and undisturbed, in which the stately swan may be seen laving its snowy bosom, or, with majestic pride, spreading its downy sails to the rippling zephyr; on its velvet banks may be seen the nimble roe and the wanton hare, as they leave their heathy couch to sip their morning beverage from its crystal stream, while, on a fine summer evening, the concert of nature's songsters, which is heard from every thicket, reminds us more of the fancied Elysium of Eastern tale, than the real enjoyments of a Highland glen. Leaving Inveraray, with its charms, we enter the romantic Glenary, and ascend, by a fine road, which winds along the course of the stream from whence the glen derives its name; the scenery here is neither strikingly bold nor meanly tame; thriving enclosures of oak, in many parts, line the way, from among which n may be heard the song of the cheerful woodman, as he lightens his labour by chaunting the melodies of his country, while cottages, occasionally, meet the view, around which the chubby offspring of the Gael may be seen pursuing their puerile sports, or ga thering together in groups to make remarks on the stranger. Poor Matilda! these hills have been the witnesses of thy virtuous love, though soundly thou sleepest, far from the land of thy nativity and the sepulchre of thy fathers, without a friend to soothe the pillow of thy distress, or a relation to drop a tear over thy untimely fate. About half a century ago, a small party of soldiers were stationed at Inveraray, and, attracted by the scenery and the hospitality of the inhabitants, often visited Glenary. William Munro was corporal of the party, and, with some of his comrades, had been pursuing their usual walk along the banks of the river and marking the gambols of the finny tribes at the bottom of a limpid pool, when their attention was drawn to three young ladies, who, mounted on little shelties, attempted to cross the ford opposite Manse. The two first gained the opposite bank in safety, but the pony, which carried the youngest of the three, refused to pass the middle of the river, and, on its rider attempting to urge it forward, she was thrown, and, instantly, swept away by the stream. One minute more and safety was hopeless, when Munro, with a degree of humanity and intrepidity, not uncommon to those of his profession, plunged into the current and brought to shore the dripping treasure. By this time, the inhabitants at the Manse had notice of the acci dent, and Mr. F- came, in person, notwithstanding his age, to thank the generous youth who had risked his own safety to preserve his daughter's. As may be supposed, the young soldier was requested to visit the family after, and was always kindly received, when, unfortunately for their peace, Matilda's protracted farewell-walks assumed a suspicious appearance and obliged the father to interdict their growing intimacy, and the coolness which could not now be concealed, soon convinced William that he was no longer a welcome guest. Though a stop was thus put to their intercourse, it was not put to their growing affection, and, if we forget his humble station, William, indeed, deserved to be loved. In his youth he had received a liberal education, was devoid of all the follies which are often ascribed to the soldier. He possessed a handsome person and insinuating address, and, when to that was added, gratitude for the past, let the prudish not wonder that Matilda's young and unsuspecting heart had fallen a victim to his attention. About a mile from Manse, stood the third mile-stone from Inveraray; to it Matilda was often seen to repair, but, as her walks were always strictly watched, that created no suspicion till time afterwards disclosed that behind this stone was the repository of a correspondence, where the parties received and left letters for the other. One morning she was absent from the breakfast table, which created some uneasiness. She was often in the habit of visiting an old woman, a dependent on the family, who lived at some distance from the Manse, but she had not been there; they went to her bed-room, but every mark convinced them that her gentle head had not pressed the pillow the previous night, when, on opening her trunk, the absence of her best apparel threw some light on her mysterious disappearance. William had received leave of absence and was to have joined his party at Glas gow, whither they had orders to march. Matilda consented to share his fortune, and, ere the friends who were sent in pursuit, could trace their steps and prevent their proceedings, Miss F. was no more. She had become the wife of a soldier. Nothing could exceed the grief of her friends on hearing the intelligence, but, as what was done could not be undone, they soon procured him an Ensigney, and well did he merit the trust. His party was called abroad to the war in Spain, where William's name was often classed with his country's heroes; but, in an ill-fated hour, a bullet found his fearless breast, and, sinking on the bed of honour, the bereaved Matilda was left a helpless widow. The sequel is soon told; borne down with grief and melancholy, she was unable to proceed home as she had intended, and her uneasiness of mind having brought on a fever, which was soon seen to be mortal, with pious resignation her soul took its departure. The Manse and the ford are still to be seen, and, though the mile-stone has been destroyed by sacrilegious hands, it is still pointed out, and the Glenary maiden, as she passes the place, looks to the "lover's post office," and heaves a sigh for the unfortunate pair. MY BROTHER. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel. SHAKESPEARE. My father was a merchant in the west of Scotland. For a long period he was successful in business, and realized stores of riches. But riches do sometimes "take wings and fly away." Fortune jilted my parent in his old age, the very time, had she been constant and true, she should have remained stedfast and faithful. A period of general distress chanced to occur in the mercantile world, overturning, in its progress, establishments till then considered as responsible as the Bank of England. And, if my father did not lose every thing in the midst of the general calamity, he was left with just as much as enabled him to retire to a small villa in the country. I had two brothers, George and Charles. It is in vain that the fond parent chalks out a path for his children. The army was what my brothers had long admired, and my father was disappointed when they told him they could not be happy in any other profession. "The pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war" had, in short, captivated their youthful minds, and soldiers they would be, without either “ rhyme or reason." Although a mere boy, I remember well the feelings of joy with which George and Charles read, in the Gazette, their appointment as Ensigns. Upon the morning of their departure, our little villa was all bustle -bustle and confusion. My father had fallen into the "sear and yellow leaf" of time, and something silently whispered to us all, that he never again would bebold his two boys. The good old man bade them a long farewell, and pronounced on them his earnest and his holiest benediction. My mother was excessively distressed, but the moment was come for their departure, and, grasping her hand and imprinting a kiss upon her pale lips, my brothers bade her a long adieu. George went to Spain, to join the troops under Sir John Moore, and Charles was ordered to Wales, with a detachment of his regiment. The company to which Charles was attached was under the charge of Captain Fredericks, a gentleman who, in the trade of war had seen some service," but who, notwithstanding all the scenes of fight and of blood in which he had been engaged, was mild and gentle to a very fault in his manners and general deportment. It happened that some one of his friends invited him and Charles to an annual assembly, at which all the principal people in the neighbourhood had been long in the habit of attending. And it happened, too, that the principal management of this affair was assumed by a Mr. Morgan, a person who, it seemed, was of a family remarkably ancient and respectable, and the proprietor of a large estate, extending over the adjoining country. This individual was in Wales, what is well-known in Scotland as the chief of a powerful clan. His numerous host of vassals, or of tenantry, who occupied his large estate, worshipped the very ground on which he trod. So much obsequious submission served to foster the most extravagant notions of self-importance on the part of Morgan, who was naturally of a fiery, passionate and choleric disposition, apt to take offence at the slightest trifle, and where no offence was either offered or meant. Besides this disposition to quarrel, which no persuasion by his friends, and which no sense of prudence or of danger on his own part could effectually check, he was a man of great bodily strength, and of immense stature. The prowess of his arm, and the bloody and sanguinary broils in which he had been engaged, were the constant and everlasting themes of his conversation. Fredericks and Charles availed themselves of the invitation, and accompanied their friend to the place of amusement. The company was splendid and nume"And bright rous The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. Music arose, with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, My brother and his friend, who were the only military men present, being both handsome, good-looking young fellows, and blessed with great buoyancy of spirits, they were not merely happy themselves, but the cause of much happiness to others. With almost every one present, and especially with a large proportion of the ladies, they seemed on the very best terms. Perhaps the circumstance of their thus bearing the palm of admiration in a manner so marked and decided, and to the exclusion of Morgan's sons, who prided themselves on their family and rank, may have offended the baronial spirit and the choleric disposition of their worthy father; but, be this as it might, that gentleman was pleased to take offence at some casual remark which my brother had innocently made, and, without more ado, he vented forth his fury by resorting to the most extraordinary personal violence. The utmost confusion arose in the assembly. The dance, and "sound of revelry by night," ceased in a moment, and nothing was heard but expressions of abhorrence, “not loud, but deep," of Morgan's conduct. Public opinion forced this person, for the first time in the course of his boisterous and quarrelsome life, to admit that he had acted improperly. But this admis. sion was not deemed sufficient. No; explanation was necessary to Fredericks; for he had beheld, with wonder and amazement, every thing which had occurred, and so soon as he recovered from the reverie into which he had been thrown, by an attack so extraordi. nary, on one whom he regarded with all the affection of a brother, he waited for Morgan, who referred him to a Mr. Wilton as his friend. It was stated, “ that Morgan was ready to make any apology which could be done consistently with his character as a gentleman; and that the occurrence which had unfortunately taken place in a moment of passion, had not only given immense pain to Morgan himself, but to the whole circle of his friends." "The outrage," answered Fredericks, “was so very wanton and extraordinary, and committed on my youthful friend, under circumstances so peculiar and aggravating, that the only terms he can listen to, are these, that Mr. Morgan make an ample apology, ex. pressive of his regret, and at the same time deliver the cane, with which the violence was used, and leave it in my friend's option, as a gentleman and a British officer, "I am afraid," replied Wilton, "that the last part of the proposal cannot be conceded. Acting as the friend of Morgan, I could not advise him, nor indeed would he himself submit, to any thing so humiliating. I am grieved beyond measure, so is Morgan and all his friends, for what occurred. Morgan is ready to declare so, openly in the face of the world; but more than this he cannot and will not do." "In that case," rejoined Fredericks, "I am at a loss to see how a meeting can be avoided.”" On the following day the parties met. There was something wild and haggard, about the tall gigantic appearance of Morgan. His eye flashed with rage, and the firm compression of his lip, betokened the determination with which he was resolved to proceed. My brother, although about to oppose in mortal combat, one who boasted that he never yet missed his man, was perfectly collected, and took his station with all becoming ease and nonchalance. The word was given by Fredericks. Charles' fire slightly touched Morgan's right shoulder,—my brother remained untouched. The friends of both interfered, and proposed a reconciliation; but Morgan, as if enraged at his defeat, and chagrined at the superior adroitness of his youthful antagonist, objected in good set terms." You must gentlemen," said he, "have my consent to a reconciliation which I am not disposed to give. I take God to witness," continued he," that this meeting was not caused by me. In a moment of irritation and passion, I admit, I injured and insulted this young gentleman. I expressed contrition-I asked his pardon.-He rejected my acknowledgement, and tendered me an insulting proposal,-I disdained it,-I am here, then, by his invitation, and I shall not leave the field until that satisfaction is afforded, which he and his friend so pertinaciously demanded,-I pray gentlemen proceed."My brother beckoned those present to forbear saying another word, and again took his position. They fired at the same moment, when Charles received the shot of his opponent in his breast.He breathed his last almost instantaneously. Morgan was tried but acquitted. The general opinion was, that the terms proposed previous to the meeting were such, to which no gentleman could accede. But as he had been the offending party, it was thought by many well conversant with the rules of honour, that he would have acted with more propriety, if, in place of firing directly in the bosom of a young man so interesting, he had consented to a reconciliation when the first shots were exchanged. Intelligence of Charles' death soon reached home,the communication was from Fredericks. It explained all the circumstances of my brother's death, and concluded by mentioning the manly manner in which he conducted himself in the field, and the universal and deep regret with which his loss was deplored by his brother officers. There was inclosed a hurried epistle which Charles had addressed to his mother the night previous to his death. It is in vain to depict the gloom that overpowered us all, as we perused that simple memorial of him whom we had so tenderly loved. In the ebullitions of female sorrow, there is always something peculiarly heart-rending; the object for the most part is so beauteous-but so helpless. The grief so deep, so sincere, but so quiet and unobtrusive. But the grief of a mother is doubly distressing. No one but those who have seen the grave close over their child, adorned with all the grace and beauty of youthful manhood, and the object of their fondest love, can form any conception of the sufferings she endured. But there was one on whose mind the event made still a deeper and a more melancholy impression. The learned and venerable Dr. the minister of the parish in which my father's villa was situated, had a beauteous daughter whom, from her days of infancy, Charles had known and had loved. Their affection had long been reciprocal. Upon the sad morning of his departure, the most sacred vows of love and constancy were mutually exchanged. The depression and languor which his farewell had occasioned, upon the amiable and sensitive mind of this lovely and youthful maid, had not subsided or passed away, when the intelligence of his death arrived, and planted in her bosom, beyond all hope of removal, the feelings of the most gloomy despondency and despair. It was in vain, that her numerous friends endeavoured, by every means in their power, to support and cheer her depressed and broken heart, by the light of hope, and the gleams of joy. She for ever wandered wayward and heart broken, amongst those secluded scenes where the voice of her Charles had often resounded, and which had " many a time, and oft," witnessed the fondest and holiest vows of their everlasting love. She for ever gazed upon his miniature, which hung around her beating bosom, and until the moment she breathed her last, the image of poor Charles was ever the object of her distracted thoughts. Lay her i' the earth, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh, May violets spring." ORIGINAL POETRY. A CAVEAT TO THE WIND. Sing high, sing low, thou moody wind, Is ever of a fellow kind With mine own fantasy. Wild spirit of the clouds, but know Sad, wayward, wild, or mad, like thee. Give to its voice a sweeter tone Of calm and heartfelt gladness; With iron cheek, that never showed With haughty heart, that never bowed I rush with thee, o'er land and sea, For I, too, love such places lone, And court such guests unjolly. It matters not-earth, ocean, air- "I follow thee;" for, where thou art, And, he that feels so, sure must be |