who perhaps are still living, but no longer living for us. It may be they grew tired of us: it may be we grew tired of them: or the separation may have arisen from mutual imperfections in character: still the letters recall times and seasons when it was otherwise, and we look upon ourselves, out of ourselves, as it were, with much of melancholy interest. That identity of the person and that estrangement of the spirit, who can paint it? But often a more cruel weapon still than these has cut the tie of affection or love asunder: it is the pride, the prejudice, the ambition, avarice, or fickleness of one of the parties only. What a place, then, is the world for a tender, trusting, loving heart to rest in; where so many enemies lay siege to its warmest, best affections! Rest in! Can it rest in it? No, it flits on from hill to hill, from prospect to prospect, but the far off-land of happiness is still far off.

There is still a third class of old letters on which the heart delights to expatiate; and it must be remembered, if any one deigns to peruse these pages, that they pretend to nothing more than being a journal of the heart. The third class of old letters I am now alluding to, are those of the still living, but the absent. Oh! what do they not afford of delight! all the imperfections of mortal intercourse are, in this mode of communion, done away with; we see nothing but what is good and fair, kind, tender, gentle, amusing; they have the whole witchery of beauty, love, and truth in them, without one speck or flaw to lower the tone of that enchantment they convey.'-pp. 16—20.

Nature speaks here without one jot of exaggeration, and she who can write so well ought not to be pardoned for mere mediocrity. The music of the Rans des Vaches is inserted in this volume, and an account of the circumstances under which the authoress first heard it are well described.

• Perhaps it is known to few. All I know of it is that I heard it in Switzerland, where I learnt it never to forget it more. I was walking alone, towards the evening, in those solitary regions whose awful wildness engrosses every faculty, and where it seems as if the desire of conversation never would be felt. The weather was fine, the wind was silent; all was calm, every thing was analogous to my sensations-those of a tender melancholy. My mind was indifferent to the course of my ideas; they wandered, and so did my footsteps. No object had preference in my heart: but it was predisposed to that tenderness and that love which has since cost me so much happiness. Through heaths and woods I went, I came, I climbed, I descended.

'Chance conducted me to a valley-a delightful valley-such as I had frequently read of in the descriptions of Gesner. Murmuring streams, green banks, wildly scattered flowers, all entered into the scene, and formed a perfect picture. It was the valley of Montmorenci. I was not fatigued, but I sat myself down upon a stone, and yielded to one of those profound reveries which I have frequently experienced in the course of my life, during which my ideas ramble, mingle, and are lost in mazes of confusion, in such a manner that I forget I am upon the earth. I was seated on this stone, when suddenly my ear, or rather the spring of my existence, was struck with sounds, sometimes precipitate, sometimes long and uninterrupted,

which passed from one mountain to another without being confounded by the echoes. They proceeded from a shepherd's pipe. The voice of a woman mingled with its soft and melancholy tones, and formed a perfect unison. Roused, as it were, by enchantment, I suddenly awoke. I started from my lethargy. I shed some tears, and I learned, or rather I engraved on my memory, the Rans des Vaches.'-pp. 119-120.

The following account of a supernatural occurrence, is given on the testimony of a respectable person of the town of Inverary, in Argyleshire. The story is stated to be the best authenticated narrative of the kind which the editor is acquainted with.

'As you wish to have an account of the vision which my father and grandfather saw in the neighbourhood of this place, I will now endeavour to comply with your request. I have heard it, with all its circumstances, so often related by them both, when together, as well as by my father separately, since my grandfather's decease, that I am as fully convinced that they saw this vision, as if I had seen it myself. At the same time, I must acknowledge, that however desirous I am to oblige Lady and you, I commit this account to writing with some degree of reluctance, well knowing how little credit is generally given, by the more intelligent classes of mankind, to a narrative of that kind, and how little it corresponds with the ordinary course of causes and events.

This vision was seen by them, about three o'clock in the afternoon of a very warm, clear, sunshine day, in the month of June or July, between the years 1746 and 1753-I cannot go nearer to ascertain the year. My grandfather was then a farmer in Glenaray, (which you know is within four miles of this place), and my father, who was at that time a young unmarried man, resided in family with him.

On the morning of the day above-mentioned, my grandfather having occasion to transact some business in Glenshiray, took my father along with him. They went there by crossing the hill which separates it from Glenaray; and their business in Glenshiray having been finished a little after mid-day, they came round by Inverary, in order to return home. At that time, the road generally used from Glenshiray to Inverary lay upon the west side of the river of Shiray, all the way to the Gairran Bridge, where it joins the high road which leads from Inverary to the low country, by that bridge.

'As soon as they came to this bridge, and had turned towards Inverary upon the high road, being then, as you know, within view of a part of the old town of Inverary, (which has been since demolished), the ground upon which the new town presently stands, and the whole line of road leading from it, to the above-mentioned bridge, they were very much surprised to behold a great number of men under arms, marching on foot towards them. At this time, the foremost ranks were only advanced as far as Kilmalieu. They were marching in regular order, and as closely as they could move, from that point of the new town near the quay, where Captain Gillies' house now stands, along the shore and high road, and crossing the river of Aray near the town, at, or about the spot where the new bridge has been since built; of the rear there appeared to be no end. The ground upon which the new town now stands was then surrounded by a park wall, and the road beyond it lay in a circular direction, between that wall and

the sea. From the nature of the ground, my father and grandfather could see no farther than this wall; and as the army was advancing in front, the rear as regularly succeeded, and advanced from the furthest verge of their view.

The extraordinary sight, which was wholly unexpected, so much attracted their attention, that they stood a considerable time to observe it. They then walked slowly on, but stopped now and then, with their eyes constantly fixed upon the objects before them. Meantime the army continuing regularly to advance; they counted that it had fifteen or sixteen pairs of colours; and they observed that the men nearest to them were marching upon the road, six or seven abreast, or in each line, attended by a number of women and children, both below and above the road, some of whom were carrying tin cans, and other implements of cookery, which, I am told is customary upon a march. They were clothed in red, (but as to that particular circumstance, I do not recollect whether my grandfather mentioned it or not, though I know my father did), and the sun shone so bright, that the gleam of their arms, which consisted of muskets and bayonets, sometimes dazzled their sight. They also observed, between Kilmalieu and the salmon draught, an animal resembling a deer or a horse, in the middle of a crowd of soldiers, who were (as they conjectured) stabbing and pursuing it forward with their bayonets.

My father, who had never seen an army before, naturally put a number of questions to my grandfather, (who had served with the Argyllshire Highlanders in assisting to suppress the rebellion, 1749), concerning the probable route and destination of this army, which was now advancing towards them, and the number of men of which it seemed to consist. My grandfather replied, "that he supposed it had come from Ireland, and had landed at Kyntyu, and that it was proceeding to England; and that, in his opinion, it was more numerous than the armies on both sides at the battle of Culloden." My father having particularly remarked, that the rear ranks were continually running forward, in order to overtake those who were before them; and inquiring into the reason of that circumstance, my grandfather told him, that that was always the case with the rear; that the least obstacle stopped and threw them behind, which necessarily, and in a still greater degree, retarded the march of those who were behind them, and obliged them to come forward till they had recovered their own places again. And he therefore advised my father, if ever he went into the army, to endeavour, if possible, to get into the front ranks, which always marched with leisure and ease, while those in the rear were generally kept running in the manner he had seen.

My father and grandfather were now come to the Thorn Bush between the Gairran Bridge and the gate of the Deer Park, and at the same time the rear of the army had advanced very near to that gate, which you know is but a very short distance (I believe not above one hundred and fity or two hundred yards) from the thorn-bush. And, as the road forms a right-angled corner at that gate, and the front of the army being then directly opposite to them, they had, of course, a better opportunity of observing it minutely, than they had formerly done. The van-guard (they then observed) consisted of a party of forty or fifty men, preceded by an officer on foot. At a little distance behind them, another officer appeared riding upon a grey dragoon-horse. He was the only person they observed

on horseback, and from his appearance and station in the march, they considered him as the commander-in-chief. He had on a gold-laced hat, and a blue hussar cloak, with wide, open, loose sleeves, all lined with red. He also wore boots and spurs; the rest of his dress they could not see. My father took such particular notice of him, that he often declared he would know him perfectly well if he ever saw him again. Behind this officer the rear of the army marched all in one body, so far as they observed, but attended by women and children, as I mentioned above.

My father's curiosity being now sufficiently gratified, he thought it was high time to provide for his own security. He represented to my grandfather, that it was very probable that these men, who were advancing towards them, would force them to go along with them, or use them otherwise ill; and he therefore proposed that they should both go out of their way, by climbing over the stone dyke, which fences the Deer Park from the high road; observing that the spot where they then were, was very convenient for that purpose, as the thorn-bush would help to screen them from their view while going over the dyke. To this my grandfather objected, saying, "that he was a middling aged man, and had seen some service, he believed they would not give any trouble to him;" but at the same time, he told my father, "that as he was a young man, and they might possibly take him along with them, he might go out of the way, or not, as he thought fit." Upon this my father instantly leaped over the dyke. He then walked behind it, for a little time, in the direction towards the Gairran Bridge, and when he had got about half way, he turned up towards the fur-clumps, in the neighbourhood of the bridge, believing that he was then out of the reach of a pursuit, should any be attempted.

'But when he arrived near the clumps, he looked back to observe the motions of the army, and whether any person attempted to follow him; but he found, to his utter astonishment, that they were all vanished; not a soul of them was to be seen. As soon as he had recovered from the surprise which this extraordinary scene had occasioned, he returned to my grandfather; and, as soon as he saw him, cried out, "What has become of the men?" My grandfather, who did not seem to pay them much attention after my father left him, then observing that they had all disappeared, answered, with an equal degree of astonishment, "that he could not tell."

As they proceeded on their way to Inverary, he recommended my father to keep what they had seen a profound secret; adding, that they would make themselves ridiculous by mentioning it; for that no person would believe they had seen a vision so extraordinary: at the same time he told him, that though he (my grandfather) might not like to see it, my father might possibly like to see the vision realized.

This conversation was scarcely ended, when they met one Stewart, an old man, who then resided in Glenshiray, going home and driving a horse before him. This, as they believed, was the same animal they had before observed surrounded by a crowd. My father, notwithstanding the admonitions he had just received, was not able to contain himself. He asked Stewart what had become of the people who were travelling along with him. Stewart, not understanding the drift of the question, answered that nobody had been in company with him since he left Inverary, but that he had never travelled in so warm a day; that the air was so close and sultry,

that he was scarcely able to breathe; and that his horse had become so weak and feeble, that he was obliged to alight, and drive him before him.

'The account I now send you of this vision was not only communicated by my father and grandfather to me, as I have already mentioned, but was also communicated by them to many others in this place and neighbourhood; it being scarcely possible that so extraordinary an occurrence could be long concealed. It is no doubt extremely difficult to account for it upon the ordinary principles which regulate human events; but no person acquainted with my father or grandfather, ever supposed that either of them was capable of inventing such a story; and, accordingly, as far as I can understand, no person to whom they told it, ever doubted that they told any thing but the truth. My grandfather died several years ago; my father died within these two years; but neither of them saw their vision realized, although, indeed, my father had strong expectations of seeing it realized a few years before his death; particularly at the time of the Irish rebellion, and of the last threatened invasion by the French.'-pp. 102 -112.

We can say nothing of this story, we only cite it as a curiosity; and whether it be true or false, it offers matter for reflection. We should like to see the quick sensibility, and the genuine perception of the beauties of nature, which our authoress evinces, turned to more important purposes than those in which she has engaged; we have no doubt that one who to such qualifications can join a fine tone of thought, and an experience of the world in some of its most instructive aspects, would contend successfully in the arena where more important and longer sustained efforts would be required from her hands than any to which her modesty or, perhaps, her indolence would commit her.

ART. IX.-Humane Policy: or Justice to the Aborigines of new settlements, essential to a due expenditure of British money, and to the best interests of the settlers, with suggestions how to civilize the natives by an improved administration of existing means. By S. Bannister, late Attorney-General in New South Wales. 8vo. pp. 248, and pp.

cclxxxii. London: T. and G. Underwood. 1830.

THERE is no question which may properly occupy more of our deliberate attention during our repose from the turmoil of war, than the one which is so temperately and ably discussed in this volume; namely, the moral improvement of the natives of the British colonies. The treatment which we have systematically observed towards the aborigines of almost every country or island which we have added to our dependencies, constitutes a portion of our political history which Englishmen may well blush to contemplate, and which every successive generation of Britons should endeavour to expiate by, as far as possible, carrying into effect for the future a system of policy towards the natives of our colonies, which shall be exactly in opposition to what has been hitherto so unfortunately its characteristic. It is the boast of our time, that this injudicious and cruel policy