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and when she smiled, her ruddy, cherry lips played with a divine expression, showing teeth so white and regular, that nothing in art could out-rival them. Her skin was of so pure a hue, that once I put a row of costly pearls-it was great extravagance I confess-around her neck, and, in contrast, they actually seemed as stains upon her bosom. Her face was of the Grecian mould, saving that the straight line, which to my eye is almost deformity, was broken at the base of the forehead, by a gentle indenting. Her foot and hand were so small and delicately formed, that in truth, she seemed not like one of humble birth-no, for she was of nature's own nobility; her tone and figure bespoke her a lady, born to grace the proud halls of a palace: yet withal she was gentle and kind as a fawn-in my eye, that feminine softness, helplessness I might say, more than her surpassing loveliness, commended her to my heart. You may call it weakness in me, for she has been my wife for many a year-to say that, both as maid and wife, when she walks the streets, or visits public places, she is the gaze and wonder of all, so much so that it is absolutely annoying, and oftentimes even yet, to avoid the impertinent gaze of passers by, or followers on, we are obliged to call a coach. * I will say nothing further of my wife-on that point I have already shown weakness enough.

Having become sole proprietor of the linen draper's shop, as I have mentioned, business did not desert me--I attended to it, and it attended to me. Some people do not know that one great secret of gaining a good business, is, being always on the spot, and always being kind and obliging. In time I was possessor of ten thousand pounds. I once said that that would be my ultimatum, but it was not. I could not exist if I had no object in view. I again made my mark a peg higher-twenty thousand pounds. That sum I also amassed, and my peg has been gradually raised, till it now stands at one hundred thousand pounds, and, God willing, by the end of this year, I will be the possessor of that sum-even then 1 suppose I will raise the peg again somewhat higher.

Notwithstanding the great object of my ambition has been to acquire wealth, that single pursuit did not afford me happiness; notwithstanding I love and cherish my wife with all the fervour and sincerity of a loyal husband, still my heart wants something more to love. My wife never blessed me with children. I tried by turns to share my affection on a cat, a dog, yea even on a parrot and a monkey, but still these were not enough; there still was a vacancy in my heart. Rich as I am, I would give half my wealth for a son or

* This portrait, imperfect I confess, is no creation of the fancy: perchance some may read this, who will remember, that in a certain part of the country in which the scene is laid, the original lived some years ago. I hope she still lives.

daughter-but that is a vain wish. My sister-in-law has three children, she is poor, and lately I adopted my nephews and niece: they are now receiving the best education that the country affords; I love them dearly, and my heart is satisfied. In truth my ambition is to leave each fifty thousand pounds: so you may observe it is for them, (they are beautiful and to me all in all,) that I labour, and not for myself. At present I live in what is called splendid style, but in no year has the amount of my expenses even approached near to my income. My mother (she is an old woman now) and my wife live in health. I am blessed. I am a man of leisure, for being somewhat advanced in years, I am turned of fifty six, though I may look younger-I have sold out my linen draper establishment; and now dabbling in stocks, speculating in lands, and lending money, do I dispel the ennui which might else weigh heavy upon me.

This is the brief outline of my life-and much has experience taught me in its course.

I have already told you that I never read; my words were true even to a fault, but you may easily imagine that this misfortune, for such I account it, arose more from my way of life, than from a distaste of books. I have, however, read Burns' poems, Blind Harry's history of William Wallace, Pamela, Pilgrim's Progress, and the Bible. These books constituted the library of my worthy mother, in her ancient garret-room; their depository was in a “neuk o' the aumerie," whose place was often usurped by certain plates, bowls, tea cups and saucers, to the no small discomfiture of the learned leaves. I was a child when I read these books. For more than thirty years, business alone engaged my attention, and when night came, I was too much fatigued to study. Thus passed my days. I regret that I am ignorant: I wish I were only wise enough to know how ignorant 1 am: yet in my intercourse with the world, and more especially since I have given up the labour of trade, I have gathered much useful information. Experience has taught me that a man deep versed in books alone, or deep read in human nature alone, is only half learned; it requires a man to be deeply skilled in both to be wise. Experience has also taught me, that a knowledge of human nature, if not so pleasant, is more profitable than a knowledge of books, and that with the first, more than with the last, will he pass with people generally for a man of information. My experience also has taught me, that the great object of life is happiness, or in other words to apportion to life as little of misery as possible; yet perfect happiness is not the lot of mortals-content is not in this world. A man must have enough of whatever his aim may be, to enjoy even comparative happiness; yet what is enough? This question was once correctly answered to be "a little more than any man possesses."


TELL me, O mother! when I grow old,
Will my hair, which my sisters say is like gold,
Grow grey as the old man's, weak and poor,
Who asked for alms at our pillared door?
Will I look as sad, will I speak as slow,
As he, when he told us his tale of woe?
Will my hands then shake, and my eyes be dim?
Tell me, O mother! will I grow like him?

He said-but I knew not what he meant-
That his aged heart with sorrow was rent.
He spoke of the grave as a place of rest,
Where the weary sleep in peace, and are bless'd;
And he told how his kindred there were laid,
And the friends with whom in his youth he played,
And tears from the eyes of the old man fell,
And my sisters wept as they heard his tale!

He spoke of a home, where, in childhood's glee,
He chased from the wild flowers the singing bee;
And followed afar, with a heart as light

As its sparkling wings, the butterfly's flight;

And pulled young flowers, where they grew 'neath the beams
Of the sun's fair light, by his own blue streams ;-
Yet he left all these, through the earth to roam!
Why, O mother! did he leave his home?

"Calm thy young thoughts, my own fair child!
The fancies of youth in age are beguiled ;-

Though pale grow thy cheeks, and thy hair turn grey,
Time canot steal the soul's youth away!

There's a land of which thou hast heard me speak,
Where age never wrinkles the dwellers' cheek;
But in joy they live, fair boy! like thee

It was there that the old man longed to be!

"For he knew that those with whom he had played,
In his heart's young joy, 'neath their cottage shade-
Whose love he shared, when their songs and mirth
Brightened the gloom of this sinful earth-
Whose names from our world had passed away,
As flowers in the breath of an autumn day-
He knew that they, with all suffering done,
Encircled the throne of the Holy One!

"Though ours be a pillared and lofty home,
Where Want with his pale train never may come,
Oh! scorn not the poor, with the scorner's jest,
Who seek in the shade of our hall to rest;

For He who hath made them poor may soon
Darken the sky of our glowing noon,
And leave us with woe, in the world's bleak wild!
Oh! soften the griefs of the poor, my child!"

*Poetical Ephemeras. By James Pennycook Brown. Aberdeen, 1831.'




SWEET bird, that through the budding boughs art flinging
Notes of such wild and tremulous delight,

That round my very soul their web is clinging,
Inwoven with the dancing waters' light,
And with the feathery wood's melodious sighing,
Now bursting forth, full as a pillar bright
Of flame upsprung, now fading tenderly,
As 'twere an angel winging its slow flight,
The soul of music in sweet sadness dying,
Would I could float like thee,

Within the sphere where thou apart dost sit,
By thy own flood of melodies conceal'd!

For never yet, I think, to mortal wit

Hath such surpassing vision been reveal'd,
Or lesson given of such deep mystery

As thou proclaim'st in sounds, to them who list'ners be!

Time was, when on my solitary walk

The stars shone kindly, when before my feet,

Turn wheresoe'er I might,

The meadows lay asleep, in sunny light,

And skies and streams, and every vision bright,
With love and joy, my heart of hearts did greet.
Then daisies trembling on their curved stalk,
The violet-studded bank, the pebbly rill,
The crocus and the sheathed daffodil
Spoke to me in the music of delight,

And with strong incantations, strong but still,
Within my soul awoke its deep indwelling might!

Why pass'd these glorious powers, this strength, away?
Oh, gentle bird, alas, what had I done,
That for so many days the beauteous face
Of nature, with its many-figured grace,
Lay like a blank before me! Twilight dun
Enwrapt me like a pall! Oh, happier lot,
In midnight to be lost, by no dim ray

Of light, call'd back to think of the clear day,
Which we, with perverse spirit, have regarded not!
Oh, joy! to feel again

The old affections wake at thy sweet strain!
I feel, I feel thy joy,

Thou happy creature, thou whom no annoy
E'er visited! Oh, pleasant power,

To win the ancient dower

Of natural happiness; to hear the stream
Thus musically babble to the beam

Of noontide, and the whispering leaves repeat
The old undying melody, and greet

An answering spirit in my soul, which springs
Out of myself to joy with all created things!


GENIUS of Silence! whose step, as thou walkest over the earth, falls as lightly as the descending snow-flake, invest me with thy mantle of down, and provide me with a quill of softest plume, while I attempt to recount all the properties and associations of thy shibboleth WHEESHT!


Every body must have more or less acquaintance with a provokingly quiet set of people, who constantly look and move as if they were saying wheesht!-a velvet-footed race, with smooth, goodly faces, who eat, drink, walk, and sleep-perhaps snore too-below their breath, and would not for the world be guilty of what they call making a fuss. This set of people are always very anxious that things should be managed in a prudent, quiet, unostentatious way. If they were going to have a ride in a coach-supposing they could bear the rattle of such a thing—they would have it drawn up six doors off.

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They keep the doors within their house always well oiled, and the pulleys of their windows in the best state of repair, so that none of them may ever be guilty of a single creak or rattle. Their clothes are always very trim about their persons, or, to use a Scottish phrase, clappit; no superfluous skirts-no majestic train-not so much as a useless lappel, if it can be avoided; because such things tend to make a fuss-might even happen to pull down something that would make a crash, or a clash, or a dash, or a splash, or something else in ash. When they rise to leave a room, it is perceptible that they are sedulous to glide away as smoothly, and noiselessly, (and unobservedly, as possible: they are evidently much put about, that they cannot devolve through the key-hole, so as to save the fluster of opening the door. "We must learn to walk circumspectly. We must make no stir. Let us take things coolly. Let us do every thing with decency and propriety. Allow no room for evil tongues. As well not give people occasion to speak. We'll do very well in our own quiet way. WHEESHT!" As these people move along, they keep a clear look-out on all hands, afraid to come in contact with any thing; and they evidently would feel much convenienced, if Providence would see fit to furnish them with antennæ like the spider, or whiskers like the cat, so that they might be admonished beforehand of the chance of

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