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No. 108.]







Being that portion of his sublime and instructive autobiography, entitled "The Tales of the Tower."

Call up him that left half-told,

The story of Cambuscan bold;
Of Camball and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife,

That owned the virtuous ring and glass;
And of the wond'rous horse of brass,
On which the Tartar King did ride:
And if aught else great bards beside,
In sage and solemn tunes, have sung,

Of turneys, and of trophies hung;
Of forests and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.


HAVING by a special providence escaped, as stated in a foregoing chapter, out of the bluidy hands of the satans, men and brute beasts, that had frichtit me to the extremity of death, and whumlit me head ower heels intil a saft midden, it may weel be jaloused by the reflecting reader, that it took me sometime afore I recovered my wind, and still mair before I gathered as muckle breath as enabled me to wauchle on till the castle. With a sair strussil, however, and a heavy heart, I managed to hirple on that length, the feck of a quarter of a mile or aiblins mair as I would guess, and sometime atween nine and ten hours at e'en I landed at the door step, to the admiration of the laird, who was unco anxious anent my lang tarrying in that wicked Jericho. When that douce discreet gentleman saw me belaigered with glaur and other commodities up to the very een holes, and in a state of abomination that needna be described, he was like to jump out of his skin with perfect rage. And when I tauld him the hail facks, and how his harum-scarum nevoy had behaved, he misca'ed him up hill and down dale at a wonderful refreshing rate to my injured feelings; however, I put in a word or twa for the widdyfou o' mischief, saying that he would mend as he grew aulder, and aiblins grow wiser after the black ox had strampit on his tae.

Seeing me sair scomfisht in spirits and abused in body, the laird sympathised with my misfortunes in the kindliest manner that ae christian brother could do to anither, and as all flesh is grass, and like it liable to corruption, he rappit out twa or three hearty malisons against the authors of my perilous douncome. Indeed, Baillie, quo the laird, had I not recognised your voice, it would have been past the power of my een to have recognised your person, in sic a pitiful and clarty pickle. Ye're like as if ye had been drawn thro a clay hole or something worse-and then Baillie, ye'll excuse me for observing, that your garments are not freighted with "Sabean odours." My man John, however, will assist you in your ablutions. Truly it is fearful to think how this world is running upon wheels to destruction, when respectable individuals of your years' standing in society, intelligence and property are left at the mercy of the ill-deidy bodies, that have set up in this day and generation for politicians and parliament men.

In these sensible observes, me and the laird nicely mooled in thegither, and when I tauld him, furthermore, that the horned beasts that were travelling to the south to be slaughtered, to line the fat penches of the pluffy Englishers, were as far gane gyte wi processions and politics, as ony body that had a soul to be saved, he nearly rave up his vest wi' dounright VOL. II.-No. 5.

guffawing, swearing that that conceit cowed everything and beat cock fechtin hollow.

Hech, quo I, getting up my spirits a bit, I am thinking, that if some of the four-legged and twa-horned diels that drave through our ranks this nicht, and smote us hip and thigh with the edge of the sword of destruction, get into St. Stephen's they'll rout there as weel as in a lang loan ony day. It wudna be hoastin, shuffling, blawing o' nebs and cries of order, order, hear, hear, that wud take the shine out of their trumpet throats. If they were not understood, they would at least make themselves heard, and that is a main point of parliamentary eloquence now a-days. It would literally Bull-y the house, and cow the hail tot. The laird leuch, and confessed that calamity had sharpened my wit-necessity being in most cases the mother of invention.

With siclike sma clavers, we continued to pass the time agreeably eneuch, considering my waesum plicht, while the laird's servant man was busy clawting, scartin, spunging and brushing me down to mak me look a wee thocht snod, clean and respectable like at supper. When undergoing this process of renovation, I learned to my great grief, frae John's sensible exclamations, the full extent of my losses in the way of wearing gear.

Save us, quo John, this superfine blue coat, lined with brimstone coloured taffety, is dished and done for ever. It's gude for naething after this nicht, but to turn and make down for calshes to a three year auld bairn.

That is a pity, replied I, and it only twa days auld, made fashioned, sewed and perfected, and coft with the hard cash frae that skeely and fashionable tradesman, Lockhart in Buchanan Street. That's £4, 10s. thrown to the dogs ony way.

That's been a bonnie hat, continued John, in its day; but noo it is sae dunklet and bedeevilled out of a' shape, that it will neither do to export to the wild Ieerishers or put on the tap of a potatoe bogle. What a waistry! Here the sympatheesing flunkey groaned heavily, and as may be supposed, an echo thereto came from the inmost recesses of my afflicted bosom.

Turning aside the skirts of my coat, John after a short inspection let fall the brush, and raising his hands, cried out, worse remains behind. Here is a screed Baillie! Oh the vanity of wearing ticht pantaloons and straps under the boot. Humphrey Clinker's frail buckskins were naething in comparison to the woeful wreck of your double-milled kerseymere.

This new misfortune nearly put me frantic, howsumever, as time was short and the laird's freends impatient to fall tooth and nail on the vivers, John, honest man, proposed to rin a bit steek up my torn nether integuments," to keep them frae flapping about in an unseemly manner, for neither the laird's nor his man's wardrobe could supply me with that article of dress, our personal dimensions not agreeing.


Being bred, originally, to the tailouring business, the laird's man did the job in a jiffey without putting me to ony unnecessary fash, altho' I must say he gied me a jagg or twa in the hurry that gart me draw mysell thegither like a clew on ae occasion, and at anither to loup like a twa-year auld colt with perfect pain.— John, however, had an oily tongue and apologeesed sae handsomely for the nervishness of his hand, that I couldna find in my heart to say an angry word to him.

In fack, he was a deacon at needle and thread, and I complimented him on his handiness; whereupon he observed with a smile, that ance in a day he could handle a goose with the face of clay, as weel as threed a needle without a styme of light.

After finishing this delicate job, John set to give me a finishing touch of the brush, and began to whisk me down, blawing and peching like an ostler, when rubbing down a horse, all the while telling me a lang story about himsell, and how he had ran awa frae his 'prenticeship, tane arles of the king, listed for a sodger, and gane aff the country, gilravishing, fechting, storming and starving, in foreign lands, for mony a weary and lang year; and all that kind of thing-which certainly was very curious and entertaining. Hearing him sae conversible, I advised John to write a book of his adventures, but John shook his pow, and said that he was nae hauf sae whippy at his pen as he was at the needle or the bayonet; nor had he the airt and cunning like me to indyte in black and white the naturalities of life in pleasant discourse. "Admitting, friend," says I, "that this be true, which no doubt to a certain extent it is, dinna for all that be down-hearted, for the gift of tongues as weel as of pens may come upon you when ye least think of it. Mind the proverb-that may happen in a minute that winna cast up in a towmond. I was auld mysell afore I thocht of making books for the edification of the public," and with that I stappit intil John's wauket loof a bonny sillar saxpence, thanking him cordially at same time for his pains, in toshing up and cleansing my poor spoiled duds.

John said he was not allowed to take any vails by the Laird, but if I would allow him, he would just bore a hole through it, and hang it, by way of remembrance, at his watch chain, beside his Queen Anne crooky that he got frae his sweetheart Mysie M'Gie, afore he embarked for Portugal to the wars. "She died, Baillie, o' a broken heart, for me forsaking her, and I canna say that since I came hame, and heard how the puir lassie peaked and dwynit awa, day after day, for a graceless neer-do-weel like mysell, till death relieved her of all earthly sorrow, that I have had a sound nicht's sleep. I think about her thro' the day, and I dream about her thro' the nicht; and in my dreams she speaks sae kindly and forgivingly, that I wauken in the wild belief that she canna be dead."

Here a heavy tear gathered in John's ee, and I'll no say but there was some sma' moistness in my ain; but at this moment the supper bell rang, and up I marched an auld-fashioned staircase. The balustrades were of black oak, as thick as an ordinar man's thigh, and wonderfully curiously carved-John leading the way with the cleverness of a whitterock. When we reached the supper-room, John threw open the door, and with a respectful obeysance announced me as Baillie Pirnie; on which the Laird and the assembled company saluted me with all imaginable civility, and ane and all condoled with me on my mishanter.

Having got by the formalities of introduction, such as shaking hands, booing and scraping, and a' that sort of conventional havers, I was glad to see that supper was to be forthcoming in the twinkling of a bed-post -and it must be owned that it being some hours ayont the ordinar time of taking my sleeping pick, I felt yaup enouch, and weel inclined to do full justice to the hospitality of my new friend's table.

Of the company it's unnecessar to be very particular. Right forenent me there was a thin faced, pale complexioned man, wi' a desperate bricht e'e, and wi' a queer foreign like name that my lugs couldna pick up, aud, just at my left hand, was a buirdly rough muirland laird called the laird o' Doups, that evidently liked a skinfu' of good drink far better than a ladleful of moss water, as the feck o' men will do if put upon their bible aith. We twa were gayen coothy the hail nicht, for he was great in discourse about black cattle, and, considering my fricht and stramash, that subject naturally came abune board. As is said in the book

of Ecclesiasticus, he was one of those "that holdeth the plough, and that glorieth in the goad; that driveth oxen and is occupied in their labours, and whose talk is of bullocks."

The laird apologeesed for having sae few guests; for, besides the twa mentioned, mysell and some other three that had little to say for themsells, and needna be individualeezed, that was the hail tot, sum and substance of the company. As they three gade awa after sippling twa or three glasses o' wine immediately when the covers were removed, they have still less need to be commemorated in my pages. In fack it appeared to me that they were what my son calls intellectual nonentities, whose absence is good company, when men's wits begin to wauken and their tongues become just like soople jacks to whip up ane anither with knowledge and pleesant inventions.

When I had satisfied the cravings of nature and managed to take my een off my plate to glour frae me and examine the room, I was struck with its auld-fashioned appearance. It was wainscotted with black oak, and, in the heavy compartments, there were stuck a great wheen of auld pictures o' gentlemen and leddies in the queerest dresses that could weel be conceived. The roof was heich, and though we had nae fewer than sax moulded candles, three to the pund on the table, forbye twa on the big mantel piece, the room looked desperate dysmal and solemn, and I coudna help drawing a comparison between its chill grandeur and the cozie, snug comfortableness of my ain parlour. However, I made nae reflexions, as the master of the house might not like to hear ony opinions derogatory to his taste at his ain table; but I determined, that should he ever dauner west to Paisley, to tak' pat luck with me, I would convince him of the superior accommodations in my tenement, for every bird thinks its ain bower brightest.



THE following graphic picture of the State Parisian Prison is taken from the last volume of The Book of a Hundred and One Authors :

The carriage stopped before the Palais de Justice. Here then was the Conciergerie. Near the vast staircase which leads up to the Palais de Justice, you discovered in a corner, on the right, sunk under ground, concealed by a double railing, crushed as it were by the building which rose above it, the subterraneous vault of which I speak. The weight of the superincumbent building pressed on it, as society presses on the prisoner, be he innocent or guilty. Was it a prison, a sewer, or a cellar? No one could have said, so completely was its entrance, so small, so low, so narrow, so black, buried in the shadow projected from the surrounding buildings. At the gate stood a sentinel; in front a lamp was burning, which enlightened with a bloody glare this funeral avenue. Now all is changed; but in 1815 the oldest of French prisons resembled the oubliettes of feudal times. I entered, preceded and followed by a gendarmerie.

My first thought was of death and of the tomb. Afterwards, however, (let me confess my sins of boyish pride,) this flagrant iniquity gave me courage, and I found that the men who could lower themselves so far as to tremble at my infancy, and to thrust me into their dungeons, elevated me to the precocious dignity of a man and a martyr. The consciousness of the pure and simple occupations in the midst of which the adjutant of police had surprised me, the consciousness of my innocence, the disgust with which this foolish and wanton barbarity inspired me; perhaps, the strange pleasure of tasting at so early a period of life its most poignant and bitter sensations, strangely supported me; I felt as if I could rise to the level of any suffering, any cruelty; I threw down the glove of defiance to the world. Alas, it has taken it up!

I was registered. The word is degrading, terrible—like a chain which is placed upon you, a weight attached to you, a physical burden; by this compact of strength against weakness, you be

long to the prison; you are the thing, the puppet, the furniture of the keeper. You descend from the condition of man to that of an insensible and brute being, classed, ticketed, like a faggot torn from the forest and laid up in its order to be burnt, in the storehouse of its proprietor.

The lantern at the gate cast but a dim and feeble light upon surrounding objects. I caught a glimpse of the rags of a robber seated on the same bench with myself, also waiting his registration. A man in a brown dress laid hold of me by the hand. We climbed up stairs, we crossed galleries; the wind blew moist and cold through these dismal passages; my eyes, unaccustomed to this new world, discerned nothing but red stars as it were burning here and there; they were the lamps attached to the wall.

"I am sorry, young man," said my guide, "that such are our orders; but you are au secret."

What does that mean?

"It is a cell which you are not allowed to leave, and where you are allowed to see no one."

We had descended several stories: a long passage with chinks, admitting air and light spread before us; several wickets opened to allow us to pass, and fell again. The third door in the passage was that of my prison; a massive door of iron, covered with bolts, of which there is a great profusion in that quarter.

"There," said the gaoler, after raising his enormous bars of iron, and making the key grate three times in the lock. The cell was about eight feet long, five broad, and twelve high, involved in the thickest darkness; the wall on the one side dripping with lime water, on the other a wooden partition, the floor paved like a cellar; in the farther end, about ten feet above the floor, an opening of about three feet in height and one in breadth, through which a fragment of the sky might be discernable; within an iron barrier obstructing this mockery of a window, and without a screen of wood which prevented all prospect within. In one corner on the left, fronting the door, some bundles of straw littered the ground; beneath the window a pitcher: near the door another filled with water, and a wooden bowl. I trembled, partly with cold, partly with fear. This was the condemned cell, a prison in all its horrors, and I, its victim, was not even suspected.


The first time that the iron gates opened, clattered, shook, prolonged their echoes through the vaulted passages, a secret terror seized me; my isolated situation stared me in the face,-I was like a dead man, rising suddenly to see his tomb shut upon him. The next day they brought me a pitcher of milk; I could not contain my tears-it was so different from my cheerful breakfast at home. Sometimes I heard a heavy vehicle stop; the locks grate, the gates roll back, the bars fall; a bustle for a moment in the prison, then again repose-silence. These were fresh prison

ers brought to the place of confinement.

My dungeon was situated immediately beneath a court, on which the windows, or rather the orifices, intended for the admission of a little light and air to the souricière, looked out. The souricière is, I believe, a sort of provisional prison, where criminals are heaped together till their respective destinations can be more definitively arranged. The female division of the prison was close enough to my cell to allow me to hear, occasionally, portions of the conversation of its inmates. They consisted of lovesongs, howled out by hoarse voices, fearful blasphemies repeated by mild and youthful ones; obscene stories told by young girls; narratives of robbery and murder in slang terms; ballads, barcarolles, and vaudevilles, sung in chorus by these depraved females, mixed with parodies, jokes, imprecations, and shouts of laughter. The most melancholy part of the whole scene was its wild gaiety; all sorrow, all remorse, every thought of morality and of the future had deserted these beings, who had wallowed in the kennel of society till they had become filth themselves. Pardon these details; they are frivolous only to the frivolous. I was forcibly struck with this crowning instance of human depravity. I had never been initiated in crime. I knew crime only from history, through the dim veil of a distant perspective. A childhood passed in romance and mental activity had not prepared me for revelations such as these. When I heard one of these women singing the popular melody of Catruffo, “Portrait Charmant,”—my heart seemed to break: the contrast was too great, the dissonance too hideous. Even now I cannot bear to listen to that air.

One day there was a more than ordinary bustle in the prison; the bells sounded longer; the tramp of regular steps echoed

through the passages; the clattering of bayonets terrified me. The chamber next to mine opened and shut several times. I heard from it the sound of weeping and lamentation. Jacques, when he visited me, was dressed in his suit of uniform. The sobs from the adjoining cell grew louder-the women of the souricière sang on as usual. I learned from the keeper that the cell was occupied by one who had been condemned to death; that the day of execution was come, the hour about to strike; that the sobs I heard were those which accompanied the rude confession of the criminal—that the priest was with him; that the prisoner on his knees, half drunk, half despairing, was in the act of receiving absolution, that in ten minutes he would be numbered with the dead. Suddenly all the bells began; the noise of wheels on the pavement shook the building; murmurs of distant voices accom panied the death procession, and the tumult was succeeded by the stillness of the prison.

Confinement triumphed, as might be expected, over a frame which had seen only sixteen summers. Those scenes of terror produced an irradical impression on my mind. The privation of air and exercise, the vexation at not seeing those I loved, the damp atmosphere in which I lived, made me ill. A month passed away-the physician applied for leave that I might walk in the court. I was conducted by Jacques to an oblong court, ten or twelve feet below the level of the surrounding streets, surrounded by lofty edifices, and all bordered with iron spikes. Naked and dirty feet were moving over the sand; rough and savage voices asked who I could be; men, with arms covered with hair, surrounded me; others, in their shirts, with no other article of clothing but pantaloons of grey sail-cloth, were stretched upon the ground, amusing themselves at play; others were working at those little articles in straw, the delicacy of which is so surprising. I recognised there, vice as I had seen in the Police, but still more hideous. There, it had preserved a semi-social garb and language, some of the habits of civilization; but here, it was delineated in all its beauty, in all its vigour. Its only dialect was slang; selfcontempt, and contempt for every thing else was painted on every feature. A wild cupidity sparkled in the eyes of the gamblers. By the side of society, attired in its decent garb, and subjected to restraint, here was one, composed of savages, who, from that very civilization, have borrowed their artifices, their resources, to turn them against civilization itself. I was more terrified at their figures, their questions, their looks, their unintelligible jargon, than I should have been by the scaffold itself.

I was only twice taken into this court; my third promenade was in another much smaller, of an oblong form, and, from the extreme height of the buildings above it, not unlike the bottom of a well. In the cells, the air-holes of which opened in this little court, were several prisoners, accused of political offences; among others, a lieutenant of cavalry, always gay, lively, with an iron constitution, and who, even behind his iron barriers, used constantly to amuse me with pleasant stories.

As my health got better, I was recommitted to my darkness. I had breathed the fresh air three times in eight days-that was enough. My imprisonment continued for two months.


ILLUSTRATIONS OF POLITICAL ECONOMY, No. 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5, in a Series of Tales, by HARRIET MARTINEAU. Charles-Fox, London.

We take shame to ourselves, for not having before this introduced to our readers the admirable series of Politic-Economical Tales, which Miss Martineau is now in the course of bringing forward, and which we consider one of the most instructive and valuable works that has lately issued from the press. The title of the work defines its object, which all must admit to be one of great importance. There is perhaps no subject upon which the mass, even of educated persons, are so lamentably ignorant, as that of Political Economy, as there is none in which ignorance is attended with more disastrous results. It is in fact, the most important of the sciences, the widest and the deepest in the range of its application to human affairs, and to man, either in his individual or social interests and relations, incomparably the most interesting. The very general ignorance of its doctrines, which prevails in society, may be traced, we believe, to the somewhat repulsive form in which they have been hitherto presented to the

public to the cold and abstract reasoning, the air of scientific pedantry, and the unnecessary parade of philosophy, in which they have too frequently been shrouded. The importance, therefore, of an accurate acquaintance, with this branch of science, will be the measure of that service, which shall bring it down from its elevated platform, and render its wholesome maxims and profoundest mysteries patent to the mass of general readers. And this is the identical service of which Miss Martineau has commenced the performance-with a singular ability---full of a generous euthusiasm for her subject—and in full possession of all the power and grace necessary for its due and happy illustration.

We are partial to female authors-in general women write well when they do write—there is more of simplicity and individuality in their intellectual character, than in that of literary men in general. They are perhaps less profound, but they are more free from the prejudice and affectation of science-the range of their knowledge is sometimes more limited, but within that range, it is generally more acute and discriminating. They may not have ascended to the hill tops of science, and looked down upon a subject world— but it has often been their happy and useful office to adorn the lower declivities with the fruits of their genius, and to indicate with an exquisite taste and accuracy, the paths which lead to the immortal summits. These qualities, with the gracefulness and flowing perspicuity of their style, fit them admirably for the important task of illustrating and throwing light upon those dogmas of science, which men, in the pride of a careless philosophy, either toss out at random, or send forth disguised under a veil of scientific and elaborate pedantry.

Such being our opinion of the better class of female writers, we rejoice to observe that a lady has undertaken the arduous and important task of introducing to the domestic circle, the principles and doctrines of political economy, and of rendering them familiar as household words. As far as Miss Martineau has yet proceeded, she has amply redeemed her pledge of producing "Illustrations of Political Economy;" and in a series of "Tales," which without any reference to their special object, are in themselves beautiful creations-she has made known to us, and left a vivid impression upon our minds, of some of the first principles and more important deductions of that important science. We do not know that there is any other medium, through which the knowledge of the general principles, and elementary truths of any subject of a severe or scientific character, can be so certainly, and with such facility, conveyed to the careless and desultory enquirer, as that of fiction-which enlists his sympathies and affections in the supposed fortunes of some fragments of his species-and having thus obtained his ear, seduces him into the reception of truths, from which, if presented in a less attractive form, he would instantly have shrunk away. Miss Martineau is well acquainted with the secret of this power, and has made a happy and skilful use of it. She knows that, when through the medium of a thousand pleasant memories, and agreeable associations, you enable men to comprehend the fundamental principles and leading truths of any particular science, you have done much to induce them to extend their enquiries, and to pursue the subject to its more recondite and ultimate conclusions. Upon this principle, this admirable series of tales has been written, and, besides their merit as illustrations of some of the principal truths of political economy, they are well worthy of perusal as pieces of elegant and engaging fiction. Our limits will not permit us to enter into any detailed examination of the several tales, or to indulge our readers with extracts, in place of which we must content ourselves with briefly stating our views of the general characteristics of this able writer, both as to matter and manner. The object of the series, is as we have already stated, the familiar illustration of the doctrines of political economy-of course the characters and machinery of the different tales are intended to be subordinate to this leading object and must be judged of chiefly with reference to it. And here is one of the great merits of our author-she possesses in a high degree, the agreeable power of blending the colours of fiction with the graver hues of systematic discussion. We have an enviable facility of pencil, prodigal of landscape, and fertile in situation, character and incident—whilst, with these, are interwoven, with equal skill and grace, the truths of philosophy and the principles of science, so as to form a texture of the most beautiful and variegated character.

Miss Mortineau reminds us of an old favourite of ours, Miss Edgeworth-there is the same calm, clear and excellent sense in all that she says, the same high tone of moral principle-no less discrimation and acuteness in her views of human nature-and nearly equal power of delineating a variety of character; whilst she still more strongly recals to us, that admirable writer, by the wide range of her observation, the variety and extent of her information the vigour and terseness of her dialogue-the gentle pungency of her irony-and above all, by her unfailing wisdom, and the treasures of a thoughtful benevolence, with which these unpretending volumes are studded over in every direction. We trust we have said enough, to induce our readers to become personally acquainted with this interesting series. We think it specially adapted for the instruction of the youthful and general reader, to whom it will open a delightful avenue to the knowledge and study of one of the most important of the sciences. Whilst, in this pursuit after truth, his taste will be cultivated, and his mind enlarged-his moral nature enriched by an acquaintance with the elegant forms, under which knowledge is presented to him, and the wise and generous sentiments with which it is adorned and accompanied.


We have scarcely had time to peruse all the articles in the present number of this monthly miscellany; but from what we have read, we think there is an evident improvement in the practicability of the political views of the present, when compared with those poured forth in the preceding numbers. "Our Three Days," though hurriedly written, paints clearly, and, perhaps, not too strongly, the excitement which existed, particularly in Scotland, during the temporary Ministerial interregnum. "The Bank Charter" is an able paper on this most interesting question, obviously penned by an individual intimately acquainted with the details of our monetary system, and is well worthy of being perused by all, who, at this peculiar crisis of our commercial history, look to some just and stable system of Banking being settled by Parliament. "Irish Education" is a plain pleading for the adoption of the Ministerial plan, at present so much canvassed throughout the country.

In the literary department, we are also inclined to say that we think there is an improvement. There is, perhaps, nothing very striking or original, in any of the papers, but, certainly, the light article on 66 Hogg's Queer Book," and on the "Botheration of the Personnel," with the more sedate articles on "Jean Jacques Rousseau," and "Goethe," are infinitely superior to such confined subjects, and flimsy verbiage, as "Wheesht," the "Pechler" and the "Essay on Kissing."


In the poetical department, we are still sorry to find that this Magazine is sadly deficient. With the exception of a touching ballad, by W. Motherwell, and lines "To a Tame Deer," there has appeared no poetry that is at all worthy of recollection. present number, with the exccption of the lines alluded to, is peculiarly deficient of genuine poetry. The wild and beautiful poem which appears in this present number of "The Day" would, in fact, put to shame, the generality of the rhymes which appear in this number of Tait's Magazine. If the editor of this otherwise interesting Miscellany be desirous to get credit, for good taste, from the real lovers of the muse, he must look out for poets, not rhymters, as contributors.

While we thus broadly state our opinion upon this department of Tait's Magazine, we beg, at the same time, to repeat that notwithstanding this defect, it is one of the best periodicals of the day.


THE SCOTTISH PULPIT.-No. VI. Sermon by the Rev. J. Marshall. Luke xi. 9. Sermon by the Rev. Dr. Dewar. Luke xii. 32.

We are happy to see this useful work continuing to maintain its character and to increase in interest; for the present number presents us with specimens of two very excellent discourses, by Clergymen well known to many of our readers. Although both

sermons have pleased us, they are as different as possible in execution. Mr. Marshall's is more ambitious in style than Dr. Dewar's-it is sometimes declamatory-and the too frequent in

troduction of the Anaphora in the composition, gives it a charac

ter peculiarly its own, but it rises in many of its passages to eloquence, and, when it was delivered, must have had a powerful effect upon the audience. After a suitable introduction, Mr. Marshall enforces his subject by showing,

1st, "That barriers, in the way of prayer, have been removed." 2d, "We have encouragement in going to God in the exercise of prayer."

3d, "We are also encouraged by our having a mediator, and the plea founded on the completeness and glory of his work." 4th, "God has promised to answer prayer."

We extract the following passage as a specimen of Mr. Marshall's style, from his illustration of the third division is sub ject :

The man who loves natural beauty must feel peculiar pleasure when he sees a wilderness converted into a garden. The God who loves moral beauty must take delight in making the wilderness of our hearts to rejoice and to blossom like the rose. And when we go to him for the effecting of such a change as this-for the promotion of the interests of true godliness, we may rest assured that Jehovah and we, upon that point, are agreed-that we are seeking the accomplishment of that which he must take delight in effecting within us. Besides this, what he has done for the accomplishment of this object is eminently calculated to fill us with the same comfortable expectation-to fill us with the utmost confidence in his willingness to grant, to fulfil such desires. As we have observed to you, the Redeemer, in this chapter, gives this encouragement to us to cherish. When Abraham, at the command of God, went forth from his country, and his kindred, and his father's house-when he set out on his journey through the desert, not knowing whither he went-when he proceeded on that perilous journey, till he arrived at Canaan, when he took up his abode there, and, in obedience to the command of God, remained there, though a pilgrim and a stranger, you would unhesitatingly say, that by his obedience in all these respects, he gave most satisfactory manifestation of his readiness to do any thing to which God might call him. And still more satisfactory demonstration did he give upon this point when called upon to make the surrender of his son-his only son-his beloved son-his son in whom all the promises of God seemed centered; instead of hesitating, he rose up early in the morning, proceeded on his journey to Mount Moriah, came to the place where the sacrifice was to be offered, bound his son upon the altar, and lifted up the knife to slay him. In this way, my friends, did Abraham, in a most remarkable manner, show that there was nothing which God required him to do which he was not most ready to do. Oh, I ask, has not Jehovah given the very same manifestation with regard to us? He spared not his Son, but gave him up to the death for us all. It pleased the father to wound, and to bruise, and to put him to death. And thus we are warranted to reason with the Apostle,-" He that spared not his own Son, how shall he not with him also freely give us all things." We, my friends, in going to the throne of grace, seeking the blessings we stand in need of, feeling the importance and value of these benefits, may take encouragement to believe that still they will not be withheld, from the consideration of what has been already given, that the way might be laid open for these very benefits being showered down upon us.

Dr. Dewar's sermon is written in plain and distinct language, and enforces the lessons of the text rather by addressing tbe judgment, than dazzling the imagination. It acknowledges the people of God as "a little flock," it enforces the Saviour's command, that they should not "fear," and it traces, with great ability, the causes by which that fear is produced. It then considers the argument why believers ought not "to fear." It is God's pleasure to give them the kingdom.


III. But consider, in the third place, the argument by which the exhortation of our Lord is enforced," Fear not, little flock; for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom." This part of our subject suggests many most delightful considerations, to a very few of which I shall at present attend. We are here taught by our Saviour, that if we truly belong to the little flock of which Christ is the Shepherd, a kingdom is already prepared for All the descriptions which the Scriptures give us of this kingdom, are calculated to raise our ideas of its excellence and glory. All the images which this world can afford, are employed to represent to us the honour, purity, and happiness in reserve for the people of God in that kingdom. And heaven is the place where this blessing is to be enjoyed. It is represented as his place of inexhaustible glory,-as the city of the Great King,-as the city whose builder and maker is God. Into this place the Saviour is now entered, and is surrounded with angels and archangels, with the spirits of just men made perfect; and there all is redeemed, our little flock, shall be assembled, when their bodies shall be fashioned like unto his own glorious body, according to the working whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.

Nor are the place and company of heaven more glorious than its services. These consist in an intimate, and constant, and happy


communion with God. Free from all sorrow and imperfection, the redeemed will be made capable of enjoying that happiness. Every hope will then be realised-every desire will then be gratified: "They are before the throne of God, and they serve him day and night in his temple: and he that sitteth on the throne, shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes."


THE death of Baron Cuvier has filled the scientific world with grief, and it will, perhaps, not be deemed unacceptable, to give a short record of an individual who was, undoubtedly, the most distinguished interpreter of nature and of science, and make some slight allusions to those works which have procured for their author an undying fame.

George Leopold, C. F. D. Baron de Cuvier was, in some manner, of German extraction, having been born at Montbeillard, which was then an appendage of the electorate of Wurtemberg, on the 25th of August, 1769 a year of no little note in the annals of illustrious nativities, as having given birth to a Napoleon, a Wellington, a Walter Scott, a Canning, a Schiller, and a Chateaubriand. From his earliest youth, he displayed peculiar fondness for intellectual pursuits, and excited in the breasts of those who were familiar with his ways, expectations of high promise. His father was an officer; but the son, from a feeling of his physical debility, resolutely declined to follow the military profession, and was, therefore, bred up, in the first instance, for the church. With this view, it was determined that his academical career should receive its completion at Tübingen, and he accordingly contended for one of the exhibitions or stipends, granted by that university but, being out of favour with the examiner, he was not successful; and, as a compensation for what the then Regent of Wurtemberg considered an act of great injustice, was appointed to a post in the Academy of Prince Charles, at Stuttgart. This circumstance effectually diverted him from the clerical line; and he next betook himself to juridical studies, though the field of nature continued to be the object of his strongest predilections. His residence at Stuttgart was the source of his familiar acquaintance with the language and literature of Germany; but, as his income there was very limited, he was shortly afterwards glad to avail himself of the opportunity of improving it, by accepting a tutorship in the family of Count d'Herley, who had a seat in Normandy. Here, possessing enlarged resources, nature put in her claim to every moment of his leisure: and he was not slow in perceiving, that the advance of zoology bore no proportion to that of botany, which the great Linnæus had raised to so eminent a degree of perfection; nor even to that of mineralogy, which at that time absorbed the attention of some of the most distinguished men of science, in France and Germany. Cuvier, resolved, therefore, to enter upon a course of minute observation, into the distinct organs of the animal species, in order that he might be enabled to trace their connexion, and their influence upon animal life, with greater precision than had hitherto been attempted. a preparation for this task, he possessed no inconsiderable advantage in the vicinity of his residence to the sea-coast, where he was enabled to study the conformation of marine animals. The fruit of his first investigations was, the arranging of the numerous class of Vermes in their natural order; and the extraordinary lucidness with which he stated the result of his observations, and laid down the enlarged views to which he had arrived, on the subject of zoological science, excited the admiration of men of science, and brought him into connexion with the first naturalists of the day, in Paris; amongst these was Geoffrey St. Hilaire, upon whose persuasion he removed to the French capital, and through whose instrumentality he obtained unlimited access to the Cabinet of Natural History, at the head of which St. Hilaire stood. The two friends next undertook the publication of various works, introducing an improved arrangement of the race of Mammalia; and, in 1795, St. Hilaire procured his young friend an appointment in the Central School at Paris. In the same year, he had the honour of being admitted a member of the Institute, which had been just re-established; and, in 1798, laid the foundation of his extensive celebrity, by publishing his "Tableaux Elémentaire de l'Histoire des Animaux," which he originally wrote for the use of the class to which he was attached. From that time he was deservedly esteemed one of the first zoologists in Europe. But he was destined to become the parent of what, with reference to its then most imperfect state, might be termed a new science; and in his capacity of Professor of Comparative Anatomy, had an extensive field before him, for bringing his rare talent of imparting instruction, to the aid of his deep penetration and masterly acquirements. For a series of years, Cuvier's courses on this science filled the lecture-rooms of the Parisian Lyceum with an auditory, from which there was scarcely a resident, of really cultivated mind, who could be counted among the absentees. "Comparative anatomy, indeed, in conjunction with his researches into the fossil kingdom, will, so long as they have being, stand forth as enduring


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